You Know Who?
by What-Ansketil-Did-Next
Summary: What would you do if you woke up with no memory of who you were, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when a spell delivers him into the hands of Hermione Granger. LV/HG set during DH.
1. The Snake Under the Bed

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: T**

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows_.

**Main Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **Getting a review of this story from Torticolis and watching the film of _Deathly Hallows: Part One_ galvanised me to finally do something about this story. I feel really guilty about abandoning it the way I did, but I had no idea what to do next. Anyway, I finally sat down to finish chapter thirteen. However, rereading the tale in order to write it made me very unhappy. A lot of things didn't make sense or relied on assumptions made before the seventh book came out. I began this story before _Deathly Hallows_ and so a lot was based on guesswork and doesn't match up with the book – like Snape being captured, the Order still using Grimmauld Place, etc... The Severus Snape plotline I had was stupidly schizophrenic and didn't do the character justice either. Also, I began the tale as a humorous story (hence the Dark Lord having dinner with the Order), which rapidly went dark and angst-ridden on me. That's why the beginning was light-hearted and felt disjointed from the meat of the tale. Therefore, I have decided to fully rewrite it. Don't worry though, all the Hermione/Voldemort stuff will be pretty much the same – it's mainly what's going on around them which will change (and I'd like to think that I'm a better author these days too). Thank you, all my readers, for being so patient with me. I know it's a drag to have to suffer through a rewrite, but I swear it will be worth it and that I _will_ finish this blasted thing!

For those reading this story for the first time, the only thing you really need to know is that my Voldemort is left-handed. I know the beginning is rather cracky, but from the second chapter onward the story becomes less so.

**Chapter One: The Snake Under the Bed**

I awaken in a strange place with pains in the cavities of my face and a throbbing in my head. There is no light here – but I can still see. I'm not sure how. Dimly, I am made aware that I'm in bed, my limbs a careless spread under the sheets. The room is well-furnished, yet solemn in its richness, with dark marble walls of _verd-antique, _and stylised Rococo serpents twist about the décor. Someone has carefully arranged a display of lilies on the bedside table, nestling in a silver vase. Underneath their perfume I can smell that they are slowly dying. The aroma is nauseating. The whole effect is that of a horribly over-designed hotel suite. It makes me feel uncomfortable and out of place.

I yawn, bringing a hand to my face. It fascinates me and I flex my fingers, bringing my other hand up, holding them level with my eyes. They're long, _so long_, these bony, almost inhuman fingers. _These are not my hands, surely_? I do not know what my hands looked like before – but they definitely weren't these chalk-pale, skeletal things. _Perhaps I am dreaming_…? I stop staring at my fingers and rub my face. The geometry of my features is all wrong. My eyes are curiously slanted, my brow hairless, and my nose… _my nose?_

Flinging the blankets roughly aside, I gaze down at my naked form. I am a wraith. I have not an ounce of spare flesh, just milky skin clinging desperately to elongated bones. My knees are what most fascinate somehow: incredibly knobbly. I run those creepy fingers over myself, exploring all the way down to my toes, sitting up half-cross-legged on the soft mattress.

Panic flumes up within me: _what does my face look like_? I scramble off the bed, shivering in my nudity, and cast about for a mirror. In all this useless luxury, there isn't a mirror to be had_. It will be all right_, I tell myself, _you will fix this – you are good at fixing things_. Somewhere this registers, but it is not terribly helpful in the search for a reflection or in stemming the rising tide of my fear. I throw open a trunk – presumably my luggage – full of weird glass bottles, glittering weaponry, thick books covered in strange symbols, and even what appears to be a human skull, my efforts causing a cloud of dust to rise into the air. Finally – _there_ – a mirrored pyramid about the size of my palm.

Even a cursory touch of my face was enough to tell me something was not right. And it truly isn't. I have no human nose. I haven't been injured or any such thing, as there is no scarring – it is simply _not there_. Instead, there are two almost _reptilian_ slits. I inhale deeply and they widen a little. But my eyes are my most disturbing feature: blood red with feline pupils; so very large, so very _frightening. _They stare back at me, nightmarish, their lurid colour relegating the rest of my features, even my strange nose, to comparative obscurity.

I place the pyramid shakily on the dark floorboards and run my other hand across a perfectly hairless cranium. That too, is bizarre. It isn't that my hair – I am sure I am _supposed_ to have hair – has been shaved off, as I can tell it hasn't because there are no hair follicles on my body whatsoever. I am a monster – a real monster. Not some sorry, deformed wretch… but something so much worse than that – something _sinister._

There is a sudden rustling from under the bed. Expecting who-knows-what, I draw back – fearful – tripping over my own over-long limbs in my effort to get away from the bed as a great snake slides out, moving fast toward me. My whole body seizes up, hoping that if I don't move it will pass me by. It's the only thing stopping me from hyperventilating. But its yellow gaze is on me, its forked tongue flicking the air as if tasting my fear.

_"Master, why do you smell of fear? Are you wounded?"_ the snake asks, sounding perplexed. _You know_, says a little voice inside my reeling head, _I have just worked it out – I am in a mental hospital. This is actually a padded cell for crazy people who think they can talk to snakes. It's all some sick delusion._ Still, the snake seems to know more than I do at the moment, so it would be foolish to provoke it.

"Who are you?" I demand. My voice is harsh and high-pitched: an unnatural sound.

The snake comes even closer. _"But I am your Nagini. What has happened to you, my love, my master?"_

_Surely I am not in a consensual relationship with a snake?_ Having no better idea, I tell the snake the truth. "I… _cannot_ remember. It… the only memories I have are of the past few minutes. Do you know my name? Whether I… my parents… or family? Why I – _look_…?"

The snake appears worried – although how I recognise this is beyond me. _"You are my Master and if you truly remember nothing then we both are in much danger… for there are many fickle humans who would turn on you in your weakened state, my love."_

"Why can I not remember? _Who am I?_"

_"My love, you are the most powerful, and the most feared, wizard in Europe – or so you have told me, and I have seen enough to believe your words."_ The snake's words are full of pride. Wait – _wizard?_

"A_… wizard?_ Do all wizards look… as I do?"

The snake – Nagini – shakes her head, a curiously human mannerism_. "No… only you have renounced the warm blood of the prey. You have become pure… beautiful… even more attuned than I to the cold visions. You are immortal, my lord, your soul split into seven, your body remade by magic."_

Immortal sounds positive – but the concept of soul-splitting is possibly more bizarre than anything I have heard so far… "What do you mean… split? How do you split a soul?"

_"By a kill, of course."_

"So I have killed seven people?" I knew somehow that we would inevitably come to this. It was something to do with the eyes. Those red eyes look fit for murder… I am a killer_. Am I on the run? Are there police after me? I do not exactly blend in – is that why I'm hiding in this dark hotel room? Is this even a hotel? Do I own this overdecorated place?_

But the snake just laughs. It is actually laughing_. "Not seven, my love! Many, many humans you have killed… sometimes you let your Nagini eat them."_

_Feeding people to a giant snake? _"Where do…" I inhale slowly, trying to keep calm – _don't think about it_ – very calm, "…where do I keep my clothes?"

_"In the wardrobe by the door_,_"_ the snake answers, _"we must go quickly, master. If you have truly forgotten all you say."_ I open the wardrobe. Black robes of various materials stared out at me. I take out a warm-looking one and pull it over my head. The sleeves are voluminous, trailing – and give me confidence. I also take out a warm, thick cloak with a deep hood, adjusting it around my shoulders.

Returning to the chest, I empty an old leather bag of a bone knife and the remains of some dried plants and shove in another couple of robes. Nagini slithers over with a stick her mouth. For an odd moment I wonder if she wants to play fetch. But the snake places the stick on the floor, _"Your wand… my lord."_

…_A magic wand?_ I pick it up in my left hand and instantly a warm, beautiful, tingling sensation shoots through the long, white fingers I still cannot think of as my own. "How does it work?" I ask with baited breath.

_"You explained it to me once as a matter of will. I think pointing it at something focuses the magic. Sometimes you speak words."_

"Hmm," I point it at my naked feet and focus on them being covered with sensible leather boots. And they are – just like that. I stare down, frozen in amazement. Footsteps echo beyond the room.

_"It is the rat – we must go."_

How a rat might sound human footsteps I do not ask. Perhaps it is to a rat as I am to a serpent? "Is there anything else I should take?" I whisper quickly.

_"No – you need only your wand."_

I slip the bag over a shoulder. "How do we leave, then?"

Nagini curls up tightly around my feet. _"I do not know, my love, you always wave the wand diagonally and we reappear elsewhere."_

So – just like the boots. Focus on where I want to be… which would be useful if I remembered anywhere. _Somewhere safe,_ I think, _somewhere safe, somewhere safe…with someone who can help me… who knows who I am..._ I swing the wand down hard. There is a deafening crack and I feel the world contract to the size of a pea and then explode inside-out.

**L.V.H.G**

It is a small bedroom. A girl's bedroom, with a sliver of moonlight shining through the curtains, illuminating the many cramped bookshelves and the lilac wallpaper… and the sleeping girl under the covers. Bereft of the last room's baroque height, I now realise I must be almost seven feet tall, as my head nearly smacks into the creamy plaster ceiling; Nagini, sensing perhaps that her presence is inappropriate, slithers under the bed in between some brown boxes. There is, under the circumstances, only one thing for me to do. I kneel beside the bed and gently touch the girl on the shoulder, sliding my fingers through her bushy hair.

"Go'way, mum…" she mumbles. How old is she? But this is where the spell brought me… and I feel I ought to respect such things. I shake her slightly. "...What?" She turns over and freezes. Her eyes stare into mine, horrified.

I dash my right hand over her mouth, "Do not scream," I order the girl, "I shall not hurt you, I promise." When she seems no longer likely to cry out, I remove my hand.

A wand is pointing directly at my forehead. _"W-what have y-you done to my p-parents?"_ the darkness and her bushy hair hide the hatred and fear I can hear in her voice.

"Nothing," I reply, "I have never so much as _met _your parents. I came here… the magic sent me here when I asked for somewhere safe."

This doesn't seem to reassure the girl at all. "Y-you'll get... nothing f-from me! I'd... I w-will _die_ rather than betray H-harry! S-so you can j-just k-k-kill me now, b-because I-"

_"Look,"_ I hiss angrily, exasperated, "I do not know _who_ Harry is, and I am _certainly_ not interested in any information you have regarding him!"

The girl opens her mouth, only to close it again. "Y-you… don't know who Harry is?" her wand lowers slightly as her arm becomes a little less tense. She sounds confused.

"I have explained," I sigh, "I simply wished for somewhere safe and the magic brought me here."

"And you've…" she began to laugh slightly hysterically, "you've c-come _here_?"

The girl is trying my patience. _How many times do I have to tell her?_ "Evidently…"

"I... I don't... I don't suppose you could tell me what you've done with the real D-dark Lord?"

"Well, that happens to be the issue, you see. I… woke up in… _this body_ and… that is all I remember..."

Suddenly, the girl smiles a rather loopy smile, "Oh, I'm so stupid… _this is a dream_…!"

"I assure you, quite the contrary – although I admit I thought that too, for a while…"

She shudders and something rattles under the bed. "What's that?" her voice is a shrill squeak. Fear is stamped all over her… I can… _smell_ it.

"Oh, that is Nagini, my snake. I believe she likes to sleep under beds."

"There's a _giant snake_ under my bed?"

"Ah, so you've met Nagini before? I must admit, I was shocked too… but the snake listens to my directions. You need not be afraid."

"I'm NOT afraid!" I stand up and she shrinks back. I do not wish to frighten her, as she is clearly more experienced with a wand than I, despite her youth. She is probably a sweet little thing normally. I just stare at her… unsure how to proceed. I could always disappear again with Nagini – but_ surely_ I was brought here for a reason? I am unable to quell the fatalistic notion. "L-look," the girl begins, "what you're... saying is... it's _insane_… but I guess I... I m-might believe you… if you g-give me your wand."

I swallow. The wand is in my left hand, still warming my fingers. _Do not let it go… it is your only security… I need only my wand… what happens without it? This chit could be anybody. She might not even be a girl – trust to nothing!_ It is as if the wand itself does not want to be let go. But I need someone to assist me with this strange predicament. "If I give you this, you will promise to help me?"

She gives a stiff, serious nod. "I... yes, I promise."

I give her the wand. "You have not told me your name…" I say, uncomfortable with the way she grips my wand, as if she's aching to snap it.

"H-hermione Granger," she says with seriousness beyond her years – she looks to be somewhere from her late teens to early twenties – "and if you... w-well, if aren't _him_, who are you?"

I smile and sit at the end of her bed, my tall body awkward, careful to avoid her legs under the duvet, "I… wish I knew. Nagini believes I am her wizard lord, but I really couldn't say for certain."

She frowns, "I suppose someone could have hit you with an especially powerful obliviate. Only... it seems pointless – it doesn't make sense. If someone could hit you with a spell like that, they'd have killed you already."

Nagini pokes her head out from under the bed_. "Do not trust her – she will betray you to them."_

_"Them?"_

_"My lord, my love, the Order of the Phoenix, those who work to bury you in the earth!" _the snake flicks its tongue angrily at Hermione.

_"I wish you had told me that before I gave her my wand…"_

_"You what!-?"_

"What did she say?" Hermione interrupts.

I turn to her, accusatory. "She said you would hand me over to something called the Order of the Phoenix. She disapproves of my trusting you. Have I made a mistake?"

"I don't know. I guess that depends on what you were hoping for."

"I…"

_"Tell her nothing!"_ Nagini hisses.

"I wasn't… _hoping_ for anything, exactly; someone who might help me, I suppose. To explain things better than Nagini…"

My snake emits what I might call an exasperated sigh and retreats back under Hermione's bed. The girl herself tilts her head thoughtfully, "You really remember nothing?" I can see her eyes widen with curiosity as she leans forward into the shaft of moonlight. I can't help but notice the prettiness of her soft features, surrounded by all that wild hair.

"Nothing at all."

She nods and puts my wand in the pocket of her pyjamas, leaving her own in her right hand. She picks a gold coin off her bedside-table and flips it nervously. "Well, I suppose I ought to fill you in. Your mother died giving birth to you and you killed your muggle father because he-"

"What is a muggle?"

For some reason this question makes her uncomfortable. She bites her bottom lip with a frown. "A non-magical person – anyway, you killed him for… well, I'm... I'm not sure to be honest… you set a Basilisk loose in a school at fifteen, which killed someone… you've killed a lot of people… but when you tried to k-kill Harry Potter – m-my friend – it backfired and you were a… spirit for thirteen years, then you got your body back and... you've been back to killing people ever since."

"What an edifying life," I comment dryly. "How have I avoided the authorities all this time? I assume wizards have a police service?"

Hermione nods vigorously. "Very much so – the department of Magical Law Enforcement, that's their equivalent of the regular police and the aurors – an elite force trained to combat and catch dark wizards."

"Like me…"

"Yes."

**L.V.H.G**

We creep down the corridor in order not to wake her parents and she opens a door at the end of the hall, ushering me into a cramped guest room with boxes stacked neatly in a corner. A musty-looking brown and orange quilt covers the bed. "You can sleep here," she says, shutting the door softly behind Nagini and me. She still has my wand.

"Nagini, is it possible to do magic without a wand?"

_"Perhaps – you have seen things without a wand, master. You always see if others humans are lying."_

Surely it _is_ possible to do it without one – if there truly is a difference between wizards and muggles then there must have been wizards without wands at some point. Suddenly, I feel exhausted. Lying down on the bed, my feet stick out; I bring my knees level with my navel and rub my legs together in an attempt to warm them. Tiredness drifts over my limbs and I fall asleep...

**L.V.H.G**

_Lord Voldemort is asleep in my spare room. _It's insane. The only reason I didn't stun him as soon as he passed me his wand is because I was afraid of his enormous snake. I have no idea what to do. There's no textbook available for this. I've warded the room so that nothing can get in or out – hopefully my subtle Sleeping Charm (I've only tried it once or twice on Crookshanks) and the Anti-Apparition Jinx will hold. My hands are shaking. For a second, I just stand in the corridor, hugging myself to fight off panic now the immediate danger has passed. I still can hear his unnerving voice whispering in Parseltongue to his monstrous snake. His horrible gaunt face and terrifying scarlet eyes. I don't want to leave him here with my sleeping parents, but we're not connected to the Floo network, so I can't let anyone know from here. I'll have to apparate.

I can't go to Harry – he's still with his relatives until tomorrow night and – unlike me – he isn't seventeen yet, which means he still has the Ministry Trace. _How strange that this should happen just when I was planning to obliviate my parents… _I guess going to Ron's is my best option. Hopefully, some of the Order will be there already and I can floo them if they're not. I focus on the fields outside The Burrow, pray mum and dad will be okay for a few minutes, and disapparate with a crack.

Remus Lupin is standing in the dark field under the stars, working on the Burrow's protective charms. His patched coat flaps in the breeze and he turns as I walk through the wards, lighting my wand. "Hermione! Good to see you again… Molly said she wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

"Change of plans, Professor Lupin." I explain, not answering his smile, causing him to frown, worried; adding ten years to his weathered face.

"Something tells me this isn't the time to have another conversation about you not calling me professor. What's wrong?"

"It sound _mad_, but... You-Know-Who has... has lost his memory and he's... well, he's at my house." _Those red eyes filled with a strange earnestness; an almost childlike trust..._

"Sorry, what was that?" Lupin pushes tawny-grey hair out of his face, "I don't think I heard you right."

"_You-Know-Who_ is _at my house _and has _lost his memory_. He didn't even remember what _muggles_ were! I've um… well... locked him in my spare room and put him in a bewitched sleep." I hold out the infamous yew wand as proof.

His eyes go wide in disbelieving shock, staring from me to the wand. "I'll get Alastor."

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Voldemort learns he's been betrayed…_


	2. Mr Weasley's Garage

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in Deathly Hallows.

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **This is the second chapter of my rewrite. See the author's notes in the first chapter for details.

**Chapter Two: Mr Weasley's Garage**

The smell of grease and engine oil assaults my nostrils as I crack my eyes open. I am obviously no longer in Hermione Granger's spare room. My tailbone is in considerable pain and across my torso I can feel bruises blossoming. My boots and cloak are gone and my wrists and ankles are bound so tightly I can hardly feel my fingers and toes. Nagini is nowhere to be seen. My wand, of course, is still with Hermione Granger. She must have decided to turn my over to the…_ auroras? _There is probably some kind of reward offered. I cannot help but feel disappointed, though I suppose I should have expected this. _How naïve I was!_ My only consolation is that I have no lost my ability to see in the dark.

I am clearly imprisoned in some kind of garage. There are stained and charred benches and shelves decorating the low-ceilinged rectangular room. Chairs and bits of junk are piled up haphazardly in the corners. The small windows have been bordered up. Much has obviously been hurriedly removed to convert the garage into a prison, as I cannot see any dust.

I try wriggling my hands out of the knots but, as soon as I try it, the ropes sear into my skin, blisteringly hot. I bite back a scream and let my wrists go limp. The pain ceases immediately. A hopeless feeling wells up in my stomach and I feel sick. I am obliged to test whether the same thing happens when I try moving my feet. As I begin to rub them together, a ring of heat begins to ensnare my ankles, but I stop before it becomes truly painful.

_Perhaps Nagini managed to escape? _Even if she did, she would still be at the girl's home, assuming wizards transported me here, wherever _here_ is. They could not possibly have missed a giant snake, could they? _I should have listened to her. _But my magic had taken me to Hermione. I suppose it is probable I miscast the spell. It's not as if I have very much idea of how magic works. But it had felt instinctual – it had felt _right_.

I wish I had my wand. _When is this nightmare going to end? _And then it occurs to me: I'm a multiple murderer – _they are going to kill me! _I can't stop shivering and my intestines are knotting themselves together. _It's not fair! I cannot even remember being this person and they… and they…! _I keel over sideways, desperately clawing at the ropes to free myself of the restraints burning into my skin. Somehow I get my hands loose, my wrists in more agony than I can stand. I bite down on the insides of my cheeks until I can taste blood, burning my fingers as I attempt to undo the knots binding my feet. Colours flare in my vision and I desperately will myself not to pass out under this onslaught of unbelievable pain.

Finally, it is done. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the table to pull myself off the floor – _but I am free. _I manage to hobble slowly to the wall, trying to lift my legs without moving my ankles. Light peeks in through tiny, splintered cracks in the boards nailed over the windows. In the distance, I can hear people talking, too far away to make out the words. But they sound as if they might be enjoying themselves. A shuddering, bitter wave of hatred toward those voices washes over me, throbbing along with the burns as place a trembling hand against the wood.

I am not stupid enough to go for the door. If they enchanted my ropes, they have probably done something to the exit too. I try to find a loose panel, but my fingers cannot grip the boards. I try again, and again, but my blistered fingers simply will not work. Furious at my own helplessness, I strike the wood with my fists, making me stumble back with the fire reverberating in my wrists and fall against the hard floor as my feet fail me.

Footsteps sound around the back of the garage, moving around toward the door. I half-stumble, half-drag myself toward the door. I recognise Hermione's voice outside, murmuring strange words. The wood emits a dull glow and the lock clicks. As soon as she steps through, I attack the lying girl, tackling with all the force I can muster - managing to cover her mouth and wrench her wand away from her, even though my hands are screaming in pain. She struggles, but I point her wand at her and _will _her to be still, even as my hands tremble violently, only just holding on to her. Yet I do not let go. "You_ betrayed_ me…" I whisper in her ear. "I will kill you if you scream, so be quiet."

"It w-was either you or my friends… not a hard choice."

_"I do not deserve to be held responsible for crimes I cannot remember committing!"_ I hiss furiously, unable to disguise how much pain I am in.

Her voice is cold, "The one you're _about_ to commit will be quite sufficient."

"Where is Nagini?"

She is silent for a while, then: "I... I don't know."

_"Give me my wand!"_

Hermione's tone is icily matter-of-fact: "You can't hope to survive without your memories. Where will you go? No one will help you." Her hand suddenly whips up to lock onto my left wrist, causing me to scream and drop her wand, which clatters to the floor. We both grab for the wand –

_"Stupefy!"_

And everything goes black.

**L.V.H.G**

Lights swirl across my eyes, blooming with pain as they spin. My breath comes in desperate, laboured hiccups. The world seems to contain nothing but confusion, pain, and hopelessness. Tears are streaming down my face almost without my noticing. I curl up on myself, trying to conceal my grief. I can hear a familiar voice, coming from far away… "You… really _can't_ remember, can you?"

"No..." I groan despairingly, refusing to look up at her, "I do not know why I killed all those people, or why I look like this, and I want… _I want_… I want it to be over… I want to _wake up_."

"I can't believe you took off Moody's ropes…" something takes my left arm and all of a sudden there is the most wonderful warmth traversing the whole of my body, as if I were lying out in the sun on the most perfect of days. Distantly, I realise that she is winding something around my wrists and ankles – but it is not more rope; instead, it is soft, soothing, and cold against my burns. "This should help."

A male voice sounds from the doorway, "Granger - what are you _doing_, girl?" Standing there is a man in a leather coat with the second most disturbing face I've seen so far leering down at me. There are scars all over it, as if it fell to bits and someone took the trouble to sew it back together like a patchwork quilt with a rusty needle. One eye is dark and squinty, the other a brilliant electric blue, wide and staring, darting everywhere, almost as if to memorize every inch of me. Ragged, greying hair hangs loose around his face. Hermione jumps up quickly, placing herself in front of me. "He really _has_ lost his memory, sir." I look away, not wanting the man to see my wet face.

He strides over; one of his legs is wooden and hits the floor hard – _thud, thud, thud! _"Don't let your guard down!" he grabs Hermione and pulls her away. "A strong wizard can break memory charms, can't he?" His voice becomes soft, but if anything more deadly, as he turns to me, "Can't he, my_ lovely_? _Incarcerous!_" Ropes shoot out of his wand, and I flinch, expecting the terrible pain, but it doesn't come. The ropes are just ropes, curling about me into a straightjacket. The crazy blue eye whizzes over me, his wand pointing directly at my chest. "Alastor Moody," he introduces himself, flipping open his long coat to reveal the wooden leg with its clawed foot. He smacks it affectionately, his normal eye hard, "You gave me _this_." The spark at the end of his wand glows the same eerie, electric blue as the glass eye and a net of light spreads over my eyes, dazzling my vision…

…_We stand in a spartan room. There is a bed, a desk and a wardrobe – nothing else. There is no door. The dull window looks out at the lacklustre brickwork of the next building. The dimensions of the room stir vague recollections, but nothing I can grasp. I'm sitting on the bed and the man in brown leather – Moody – is standing over me, his strange eye rolling about, as if looking for something. "Where are they?" He growls the words out._

"_Where are what?" I spit at him, "there is nothing here."_

"_Your memories, where are your memories?"_

"_I do not know."_

_He strides over to the wardrobe, trying to wrench it open. But the wardrobe is locked. He rattles at the handle, but it still won't open. "You try. Open the wardrobe." I look at it – such a horribly humdrum thing, this wardrobe. The ugly puce paint is old and scratched. It isn't even very big. I can hardly believe such a disgusting object could contain my memories. "What are you waiting for – open it!"_

_Trembling slightly, I reach for the handle. My wrists are not injured here. Where are we? Inside my mind? Why on earth do I visualise the inside of my mind as this stupid little room with an old wardrobe? And how is the blue-eyed monstrosity in here with me? Yet it is hypnotic, the idea that by turning the knob under my fingers, I could discover…_

_The handle doesn't budge. It's achingly disappointing. I hiss in fury and knock my knuckles against the door. Moody just stares at me. I turn and stare back, unwilling to let him get to me any longer. "Well," he hums thoughtfully, "I guess we'll have to go to plan B…"_

"You _can't!" _Hermione is standing in front of me, shielding me from the madman's wand. "You can't just _kill_ him!"

"D'you reckon it has to be Potter, then?" Moody quirks a scarred eyebrow.

"No, it's-"

"Right, well, stand aside, there's a good girl…"

"_No_! You don't understand! He_ can't_ die! Wait until Harry gets here! He'll tell you."

He slowly lowers his wand. "One more day," he turns to sneer at me, "_then_ you get what you deserve, you _disgusting creature_." Moody stomps out and the door bounces on its hinges behind him.

**L.V.H.G**

I watch as Moody leaves, flicking the swinging door shut with my wand, and bite my lip. Voldemort is lying on the floor staring at me with his large, unblinking, red eyes. I didn't get the chance to put salve on those swollen fingers - livid with blisters - now hidden under Moody's ropes. I can't justify leaving anyone in that sort of pain, even if he deserves it. I can't help but feel sorry for him, helpless and desperate, with no knowledge of anything he once knew. It's incredible to think that Voldemort actually got out of those vicious hexed knots. I saw how powerful Alastor Moody made those spells; it must have been torture. I really_ hadn't_ wanted touch that unnatural white skin - I don't want to be anywhere _near_ Voldemort - I'd expected it to feel like scaly or papery, but the pale flesh felt soft just like anyone else's, just colder. It's incredibly hard to watch anyone in agony, even Voldemort.

But even tied up, without his memories, and badly-injured, Voldemort is still frightening with his bleached skin and unnatural eyes which just stare and stare, glittering in the darkness of the garage. "Are you all right?" I ask, my voice quivering. As soon as I say it, I know it was a stupid, stupid thing to say – just one of those automatic, polite things to say drilled into me by my parents.

"_All right," _his lipless mouth smiles dreamily up at me, his chilly voice causing the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck to rise, "Am I all right? Do I feel all right? Do I _look _all right? _NO I AM __**NOT **__ALL RIGHT!" _His eyes are demented, his voice hysterical and – acting on gut instinct – I turn to run, but his suddenly soft, silvery voice makes me stop. "I… I am sorry... I… you cannot p-possibly…"

"I have to go." I had only intended to check on him, making sure he was still there, somehow doubting that we could really have caught _Lord_ _Voldemort_, even thought I knew it was true. But after he attacked me and I saw how much he'd injured himself... _We're not monsters like him, he would leave me in pain if our positions were reversed. _It's basic decency to treat prisoners humanely.

"You saved me... t-thank you..." It's surreal. I don't know what to do. Lord Voldemort is sprawled in front of me, thanking me. By the light of my wand I can dimly see that his feline pupils have contracted to almost nothing. "Nagini is gone and I... I do not even know my own name…" I can't believe this is the same man. The desperation in his crimson eyes is awful. _His name… the name he chose for himself to replace the name of his muggle father… the name every witch and wizard in Britain knows and fears to speak… _

"I have to go!" I repeat the words, backing away. The red eyes close, turning him into a wax model; without the vivid animation eyes grant, his features are so expressionless. Then, slowly, he leans carefully forward and then just as carefully back – and again. Rocking slowly back and forth like an old rocking chair, not opening his eyes. I leave, my chest feeling tight, warding the door behind me.

Outside, everyone is getting ready for tonight: last minute adjustments to the wards, making sure there are enough beds, running through the plan. Only Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, Arthur Weasley and I know about the current location of the Dark Lord. We thought the Order might panic if they knew You-Know-Who was tied up in Mr Weasley's garage. I've intimated that there is complex magic at work which means only Harry can truly kill Voldemort, so we wait for Harry. We can't tell the Ministry either, I think Scrimgeour would have Voldemort kissed immediately and that can't happen. He has to be totally destroyed. I doubt if a Dementor would be interested in such a shredded piece of soul anyway_. _I don't intend to mention anything about Horcruxes to the Order – Harry told me and Ron not to tell anyone about them.

Just because Voldemort has been captured, it doesn't mean his Death Eaters won't attack Harry. Mr Weasley said they probably don't know what has happened: "You-Know-Who keeps them in line with fear. If they knew he's lost his memories, I think we'd know by now." So the original plan is still going ahead.

Ginny waves down at me, turning circles in the blue summer sky on her broom and Ron zooms up beside her. "Hey, Hermione!" a goofy grin is all over his face and I can feel myself blushing. _I… I haven't told Ron. _It feels surreal to have just walked out the garage that contains those tortured crimson eyes and now be out in the warm afternoon, with Ron smiling down at me. My eyes are suddenly watery. "I'm getting a last bit of practice in before tonight," Ron explains, swooping down to hover beside me, his ginger hair tossed by the breeze. I can tell he's really nervous but his blue eyes are full of Gryffindor determination. He looks very handsome and my tummy quivers.

"That… that's very sensible." I'm going to be travelling on a Thestral with Kingsley Shacklebolt, which is both dangerous and reassuring. The Death Eaters will probably go for me and Kingsley first, making the assumption that the Order would put Harry with our most powerful auror. At least I know that Voldemort won't be with them. _Voldemort…_

Ron nods and flies off with Ginny, leaving me with my thoughts. I suppose Voldemort now belongs in the Janus Thickey ward at St Mungo's with Gilderoy Lockhart. I chuckle, imagining my blond former professor trying to sign autographs for the most evil wizard of all time. But then I remember that Neville's parents are stuck there too and the humour vanishes.

**L.V.H.G**

Hermione Granger does not come back. I lie on the cold, hard floor, trying to sleep – thinking nostalgically of the luxurious mattress of the "hotel room". I would even have been grateful for the girl's small, lumpy spare bed. The only thing keeping me warm are the ropes which dig into my body. Pinned to my sides, my fingers have swollen up. I wish Hermione had rubbed her strange balm onto them too.

It is quiet now; I cannot hear any noise outside but the rustlings of the wind. Perhaps it is late? It is so hard to tell here. I dread the madman returning unexpectedly to finish me off. "I need to escape…" I mumble aloud. But the sound of my own voice is not companionable, but sharply intrusive. _It is not my voice! I swear it is not my voice! _The cold, high tone is unnatural, androgynous; an eerie whisper into the silence of my makeshift prison.

"_Master?"_

My heart fills with surprised delight. "_Nagini!_ Nagini, where are you?" I cast my eyes about, trying to discern where she is.

"_I am outside, my lord, my love. I cannot reach you through their spells."_

"Do you know where we are? How did you find me?"

"_I do not know where we are, only that there is swamp all about and a house full of humans. I can always find you, master. I am your vessel."_

"Can you get me out?"

"_No, my lord… but you may see a way I cannot."_

I can see nothing of the sort. I have been looking for hours – there is no escape from here. _If only Hermione did not have my wand! _I struggle toward the direction of Nagini's hissing until I rest against the wall, pressing my ear against the wood. "Are you hidden? I do not want them to find you too…" I say quietly.

"_They will not see me, master. I can stay here for a long time. We are surrounded by swamp and long grasses – perfect for hunting. I have already devoured several gnomes, although humans would be better…"_

_Gnomes?_ "No humans – you must not give away your presence." Not to mention how disgusting the idea is.

"_I understand, my lord. I must wait until you are free. It is fine. I am still digesting the muggle teacher."_

I shudder and try not to think about her last sentence.

**L.V.H.G**

_We made it._ My heart is still thumping fast with adrenalin from battling with the Death Eaters who attacked Kingsley and me – I can feel the blood pumping in my ears. But no one died except poor Hedwig, though there were a few close calls and poor George got his ear cut off by Snape's vicious slicing hex. But he's going to be okay – it could have been a lot worse, really. _We're all going to be okay_. Someone hands me a small glass of Firewhisky and I discover my hand is shaking. "I'm going out for some fresh air," Harry mumbles, wanting to escape the crush and the spotlight. Lupin and Moody both give me meaningful looks. I look down at my drink, a small sip burning down my throat. For a moment I consider draining the whole thing, but end up setting it down on the kitchen bench with a _clink_, making sure Ron is busy with George, before disappearing to follow Harry outside.

Harry is standing by the garden gate, looking up at the stars, a quietly grazing Thestral beside him. "Harry…" I call softly, trying not to be overheard by those inside. My friend doesn't turn around. I walk up and lean on the rusty gate beside him, the firmament twinkling above us.

"I can't believe Hedwig's gone…" he whispers, green eyes full of pain, looking over at the Thestral grazing nearby. "…And George almost died for me. I can't…"

I put a hand on his shoulder, my voice betraying my nerves. "There's… there's something I haven't had a chance to tell you. Something amazing."

He turns his gaze on me, frowning. "What?"

"Well… uh… nobody knows this so far apart from me, Auror Moody, Professor Lupin and Mr Weasley but… um… we've captured You-Know-Who." Harry does a complete double-take, jaw falling open. "And – erm – we've locked him in Mr Weasley's garage."

Our eyes both turn to the squat, innocuous-looking, muggle garage. "You're_ kidding_?"

I shake my head slowly, "He's lost his memory, Harry. He doesn't even know who he is. Just like Lockhart."

Harry begins to laugh, a slightly cracked, unhinged giggle and slaps me on the back. "Good one, Hermione! That was just what I needed… _oh_…!" he breaks out into another fit of laughter. "You really had me for a second… oh, _wow_…"

"I'm serious!"

But he's laughing so hard he has to cling to the gate to keep from falling over, "Oh… just… geez, stop it Hermione, you're _killing _me_, just like Lockhart_, ooh…!"

I cross my arms, furious, "It's not funny, Harry!" But he's almost hysterical with mirth. I grab his arm, drag him over to the garage and pull the door open, the blue aura of my wand illuminating the unmistakable features of the man lying bound in the corner. In this light, those eyes look almost purple as they blink up at us.

Harry stops laughing.

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Harry confronts Voldemort!_


	3. Harry Potter & Tom Riddle

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in Deathly Hallows.

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **This is the third chapter of my rewrite. A reasonably short chapter, I'm afraid, but the next one will be much longer. I really don't want to make it seem like Harry is a bad guy in this chapter, so I hope he comes across as real rather than a git.

**Chapter Three: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle**

_I wonder how long they will leave me here? _I have no way of guessing how many hours have passed since Hermione last entered the garage. Nagini is off hunting. No one has brought me anything to eat or drink and, along with the pain of my limbs, my head is now beginning to throb and spin. I must surely be in the hands of private citizens, to be imprisoned in a garage, which means – presumably – that no one has informed the authorities of my capture. This could be for several reasons: they want to administer vigilante justice, they want to ransom me, they gain from my simple disappearance, or possibly they are at odds with the wizarding police themselves. My guess is, unfortunately, the first option.

I keep imagining myself in the small room with the wardrobe, trying to force the handle. Lying here in the darkness, all I have are surface thoughts and everything else is a perfect void. I go over, again and again, all that I have been told, all that has been said, hoping to trigger _something_, to spark some slight recall. But all I have is the present and the last agonising jumble of hours. Whoever this Dark Lord was, my mind does not allow me to touch him.

The door opens and I go cold, wondering if it is Moody come to kill me. Dazzling blue light is shining into my eyes and I blink, trying to make out the silhouettes behind it. Then the door slams shut and I can hear furious whispering. _Is that Hermione's voice? _But the much-abused hinges creak again. A bespectacled young man about Hermione's age is walking toward me, staring as if hypnotised. His dark hair falls across his forehead and his mouth is stretched to a thin line, his green eyes wide in deep shock. Hermione is behind him.

I say nothing, hoping not to break the spell of silence as the intense young man fixes his gaze on me. Eventually, I try a smile.

A truly vicious kick collides with my ribs, but I refuse to cry out. "That's for my parents!" the boy snarls. Another kick catches me in the chest, even harder than the last, leaving me winded. "That's for Cedric!" The next one catches me where a wrist is bound under the rope and I can't help but scream as the pain erupts again, "That's for Sirius!" He realises where it hurts and kicks me there again, even more violently, rubbing his shoe in afterward. An awful, keening noise fills the air and I distantly realise it is coming from my mouth. "That's for Dumbledore!" He draws breath, panting and again there is searing pain, "That's for Hedwig! And _this_… this is for _me_…!" And I know what he's going to do – he's going to stand on my swollen fingers. I brace myself –

"STOP IT!" Once more Hermione is between me and my attacker, "Harry," her voice is gentle, "he _doesn't remember_…"

But Harry isn't listening; he's doubled over next to me, clutching his forehead and grinding his teeth. "I DON'T CARE!" he bellows suddenly, a wand pointed at me, "HE DESERVES THIS! _Cruc_–!"

"_Expelliarmus!" _the boy's wand soars through the air and into Hermione's left hand, while her wand is still pointed at him. "I won't let you, Harry. You're better than him. You don't need to do this. He's defenceless. Besides, you still have the Trace on you, remember? If I hadn't stopped you, the Ministry would have arrested you for casting an Unforgivable!" She looks over at me, "We… we can't punish him for things he doesn't remember doing… It's not right. I won't let you."

"Hermione – stop acting like he's a… a… a _fucking house-elf!"_

Her voice rises to a hysterical level, "This has _nothing_ to _do _with house-elves, Harry James Potter_!" _Maybe the spell did not make a mistake? The girl is a staunch advocate. _Yes, but she was the one who got you into this situation to begin with, wasn't she?_

"You're _unbelievable_…" the boy breathes heavily, staring at Hermione, "you said Mad-Eye, Mr Weasley, and Remus know about this?" He holds his hand out for his wand.

She gives it to him, while nodding wordlessly, and Harry storms out, much like Moody did earlier, leaving me and Hermione alone. She waves her wand at the door, making sure it's magically sealed, and then she turns it on me: "_Petrificus Totalis!"_

My body goes rigid and my head hits the floor. With a flick of the girl's wand, the ropes disappear. She leans over me, examining my injuries and – _thank the powers that be!_ – administering some more of her wonderful salve. There are so many things I want to ask her. She never told me my name. I asked Nagini but she gave me nothing but a litany of _Master… Dark Lord… Beloved_… No answers. My eyes follow the movements of that wand, wishing for my own. When the ropes reappear, she lets me move again. "Please," I ask her calmly, "Can you… can you tell me my name?"

She swallows, standing up, rolling her wand between nervous fingers. "It's… Tom."

_Tom? _I'm nonplussed. I was expecting something that I would _connect_ with; a clue to my memories. _Tom. _It could be any man's name – a complete anti-climax. It is achingly disappointing. No trace of familiarity. "Are you sure?" I ask.

"Yes," she says simply, "Your name is Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Is she making this up?_ Riddle?_ Is it some sort of joke? "You're not… making fun of me, are you?" I ask. My words full of wary respect.

Hermione frowns, "No. Why, did you expect something else?"

"No… it's just… _Riddle._ I thought…"

"Oh!" Her expression becomes less guarded and her features soften, "No that _is_ your name." But there's something in her eyes that tells me she's holding back the whole truth.

But Hermione is the only person I've seen who has been kind to me apart from Nagini and I want to stay on her good side and that means playing along. I'll discover the truth eventually. She's saved my life twice now. "Thank you for telling me," I say quietly, making sure to look directly into her eyes, "and for healing me. I think my spell worked after all."

"Your spell?" she gives that curious frown I begin to recognise as typical.

"The spell which took me to _you_… I asked it to bring me somewhere safe." I lower my voice, trying to imbue my voice with as much faith as I can. _I need her._ I _need_ her to believe in my trust.

Her frown deepens, and a flush settles on her cheeks, but she says nothing.

**L.V.H.G**

Everything is so surreal. Everywhere, people are getting ready for Bill and Fleur's wedding. Harry isn't talking to me and Ron keeps giving me incredulous looks, so Harry must have told him what happened. I suppose the adults must be doing _something _about Voldemort, since Professor Lupin told me not to go into the garage again. Mrs Weasley keeps giving me and Ginny jobs to do – probably just to keep me busy, since the tasks are becoming increasingly unnecessary. I think Harry must have talked with Lupin and Moody too because I haven't seen anyone near the garage except Arthur Weasley, who appears to be doing something odd with a chicken coop in the yard, but is definitely watching the garage. Obviously, he's on guard duty, I can see him out the window as Ginny and I make up the beds for Fleur's parents.

"Hermione, dear, could you go and check the wards? Kingsley did it this morning, but we're trying to put a bit of magic into them every few hours just to be sure."

"Sure, Mrs Weasley," It's another perfect summer day, although I transfigure my sneakers into boots just to make sure I don't get mud all over my socks as I trudge out through the field. The Burrow is under the protection of the Fidelius Charm, so we don't really need wards, but it's best to be on the safe side. It's nice to be out of the house, just enjoying the warm breeze, forgetting about Voldemort.

I hear an odd gruff noise from the grass. I look up. Harry and Fred are de-gnoming the garden and squealing brown gnomes are arcing through the air across the fields. One lands quite close to me. The gnome is growling and swearing to itself, clearly very unhappy, when all of a sudden there is a sharp squeak and then nothing.

In fact,_ all_ of the gnomes thrown into the field fall silent a moment after their rough landing; normally, I would expect to hear them digging grumpily to get back underground. There is definitely _something_ in the field with me and the gnomes. I have a pretty good idea of what it might be. We couldn't find Nagini at my house, and I think she must have found a way to follow her master here; Voldemort's living Horcrux; the snake that attacked Mr Weasley. "_Serpentem revelio_," I whisper, swinging my wand round cautiously. It's hard to make out in the bright sunlight, but a long, thin haze of pale blue light swirls across the grass, curving with the creature's undulations. _Nagini._

"_Immobulus_," I say softly, pointing my wand where the faint haze still lingers over the snake, invisible in the long grass. Nothing happens. The poor gnomes continue to be systematically devoured. My blood is pumping in my ears and I stand like a scarecrow, wand out, stock still, the wind blowing my hair into my face. I try the spell again, in case it was a mistake. Nothing. _Of course!_ Voldemort would have been stupid not to cast all manner of protective enchantments on his prized Horcrux. Probably the only reason my first spell worked was because I cast it on the field, not Nagini herself. _What am I going to do? _If I move, the snake will certainly know I'm here… if I _don't _move…

The minutes drag by and I worry that I'll have to stand here all day. But as the gnomes keep flying across the fields, swearing and squawking, it seems that they slowly cease to be gulped down so quickly. Perhaps she's almost full? Maybe if I just wait a little longer? Then a little brown gnome staggers past me, unmolested, grumbling his way into the ground. I count: _1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10…_ The gnome is still unhappily getting on with digging. I wait for another gnome, just to be sure. He too, seems to be burrowing into the earth, free of snake attack. Eventually, I allow myself to breathe again and carefully make my way back toward the burrow. All of a sudden, there is a hiss behind me and something smooth and wet brushes past my leg. I scream, breaking into a run, heart racing. But Nagini doesn't follow. I quickly cast a breathless warding hex on the field, making sure Nagini can't get out.

As soon as I make it to the yard, I catch myself jogging toward the garage. I stop andwalk back toward the garden, where Harry and Fred are about half-way through the de-gnoming. The Weasleys must have a real infestation. "Harry, I need talk to you."

Fred winks at Harry. "First Ginny, and now Hermione – real ladies' man I see, Harry!"

I roll my eyes as Harry glares at Fred, before turning the glare on me. "About what?"

"About…" I glance nervously at Fred, whose blue eyes are full of curiosity, "about the you-know-whats."

Harry's eyes widen. "Oh, yeah…" he turns to Fred apologetically, "I'll be back in a sec…"

"Longer than that and I'll tell Ginny the two of you were French kissing!"

We find a quiet place around the back of the Burrow and I tell Harry about my encounter with Nagini. "We can't hurt her with conventional spells. We have to break You-Know-Who's enchantments first and… well, I've never seen any charms that powerful; it was as though my spell was never cast."

He gives me a serious look, "So… you're still in for destroying the Horcruxes?"

"Of _course_ I am! Just because I think that a _helpless man _shouldn't be _tortured_ for things he _can't remember_, doesn't mean I don't want to make sure he's defeated!" My eyes prick with moisture and I realise how much his attitude hurt me.

Harry's green eyes flash for a second, but then he turns away, embarrassed. "Yeah, you're… you're right. We should be_ better_ than him. It's just… after everyone just put their lives on the line for me… and there _he _was… I just snapped. It won't happen again… Look, I've got to get back to the gnomes. We'll talk about this later with Ron, alright?"

"Fine..."

**L.V.H.G**

It has been hours and Nagini has not returned. The absence of any of my captors means, I think, that Hermione Granger has been warned away from me. Although the burns are slowly becoming more bearable, I would be very grateful for more of her miraculous salve. I hope Nagini has not been caught… the thought makes me nauseous. It is becoming difficult to see straight. Corners seem to weave around me, my eyes slide in and out of focus of their own volition, and my head will not cease to pound. I swallow compulsively, trying to trick my painfully dry throat into thinking of saliva as water. _Water… I need water… water… please…_I beg any deity or magical entity who might be listening. _Please… water… I need water…_

BLIP!

Something hits me sharply on the back of the head.

BLIP! BLIP!

Plump droplets strike the floor and I look up. It is raining inside the garage. Actually _raining inside the garage!_ Clean precipitation is falling from the patched, dirty, old ceiling as though it were a gravid sky. I open my mouth as wide as possible, trying to catch the rain with a grateful tongue. For the first time, I feel this unnatural body as my own, as I fling myself backward, delighting in the feel of the heavy beads of water running together across my hairless scalp, trailing down my face and over my chin_. If only I were not tied up!_ I close my eyes, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to let out a wordless hiss of pleasure as the rain sooths my smarting fingers. The more I revel in it, the harder the rain seems to fall, bouncing off the greasy floor, soaking me through. I feel myself like a new creature, my mouth full of the miraculous water. My skin is no longer sweaty from pain, fear and immobilisation; my injuries too, are ameliorated by the cool liquid.

I begin to shiver and the shower eases, as if sensing my discomfort. I lie on my back, staring up at the perfectly ordinary roof. The only evidence for the aberration is my sopping figure and the large puddle stretching out across the floor.

_Did I make that happen?_

It is the only possible conclusion. Yet… yet… _how? _Nagini and I had spoken of magic performed without a wand, yet Hermione, Nagini and the boy… Harry… had all behaved as though real magic could not be performed without one. Nagini had been horrified at my handing over my wand to Hermione, while she herself had successfully stopped Harry's attack on me by removing his wand from him. I had not seen anyone perform magic without one.

_But wasn't I – Tom Riddle – meant to be a feared wizard lord?_ Did it not make sense that I might possess abilities beyond what might be considered normal? However uncommon the ability, it is obvious those imprisoning me do not know about it. Otherwise they would surely have taken more precautions in constructing my cage. I stretch my lipless mouth taunt into a tight smile and _focus._

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Bill and Fleur's wedding and Voldemort hatches a plan to escape…_


	4. The Warlock's Hairy Heart

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The fourth chapter in the rewrite. This chapter covers Harry's birthday and the wedding at the Burrow. Meanwhile, Lord Voldemort becomes adept at wand-less magic and remembers a thing or two. There are several scenes which had to be taken straight from the book for this chapter, but it's a long chapter and hopefully I've put in enough material to still make it different and exciting (as well as chucking in some pretty _huge_ dollops of foreshadowing!). I promise that from the next chapter onwards the story will diverge rapidly from the narrative in _Deathly Hallows_. Thank you _so much_ to everyone who reviewed the last chapter!

**Chapter Four: The Warlock's Hairy Heart**

"How _do _you destroy a Horcrux, anyway?" Ron asks, sitting beside me on Harry's makeshift bed, lounging across the crocheted, red and yellow blankets. He gives me a small nudge and I can feel my heart beat a little faster.

"Well…" I inhale, trying to sort out all the information before I speak. "We know that the snake can't be killed by normal means. But I've been researching the topic and I'm pretty sure that–"

"How?" Harry asks curiously, sitting down across from us, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. "I didn't think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library."

I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks with embarrassment, "There weren't. Dumbledore removed them all… but he – he didn't destroy them."

Ron jerks away from me, his blue eyes shocked, "How in the name of _Merlin's pants_ have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?"

_Oh, this is horrible! I never should have pinched those books! But… but… we need to know! I'm sure Dumbledore wouldn't mind! He – he wouldn't, would he? _"It…" I manage to choke out, "It _wasn't_ stealing!" But my friends just stare at me. I plunge on, feeling my face get hotter and hotter, "They were still _library books_, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves." I reach up to swipe a strand of stray hair off my forehead. "Anyway," I sniff, trying to regain my composure, "if he _really_ didn't want anyone to get at them, he should have made it much harder to–"

"Get to the point!" Ron exclaims.

"Well… it was easy," I explain guiltily, and I can tell my best friends are disappointed in me. Responsible Hermione Granger _stealing_ books from the Headmaster's office! Even if they _had_ been on the shelves – which they weren't – it's forbidden to borrow school library books over the summer. "I just did a Summoning Charm. You know – _accio_. And they zoomed right out of Dumbledore's study window and into the girls' dormitory."

"But when did you do this?" Harry's voice is incredulous.

"Just after his – Dumbledore's – funeral," I feel so ashamed, "right after we agreed to leave school and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my things it – it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better it would be… and I was all alone in there… so I tried… and it worked. They flew straight in the open window and I – I packed them." I swallow nervously, but they're still staring at me, green and blue eyes full of shock. _This is awful!_ "I _can't _believe Dumbledore would have been angry," I say imploringly, wanted them to _say_ something and not just_ look_ at me like that, "It's…. it's not as if we're going to use the information to _make _a Horcrux, is it?"

"Can you hear us complaining?" Ron flashes me an admiring grin and I find myself smiling back conspiratorially, suddenly realising that they're not mad at all. I sag with relief and shove the guilt to the back of my mind. "Where are the books, anyway?"

I lean across to where I'd been sorting through books to bring with us, finding Owle Bullock's _Secrets of the Darkest Art _hiding underneath _Break with a Banshee _and_ Asiatic Anti-Venoms. _It's a thick, doorstop of a book, bound in faded black leather with dark, purplish scrollwork encircling the silver lettering of the title. I can hardly believe anyone would _ever _want to do any of the things Bullock writes about. Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn queasy. I turn back to the boys, "This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. It's a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library… If he didn't do it before he became headmaster, I bet You-Know-Who got all the instruction he needed from here."

"Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he'd already read that?" Ron asks.

Harry leans forward, his glasses sliding a bit down his nose. But his eyes are bright. "He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into seven. Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew about how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you're right, Hermione, that could easily have been where he got the information."

"And the more I've read about them," I shiver, "the more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe he actually made six." It was a very frightening thought, considering just how evil the book was, that Voldemort did things when he was _still in school_ that the darkest of wizards could never conceive of. "It warns in this book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that's just by making _one _Horcrux!"

I feel a guilty pang of sympathy for the man tied up in Mr Weasley's garage. Harry had told me how Tom Riddle's features had become more and more distorted until he didn't seem human at all... _The look of trust in his eyes… "Somewhere safe…" he'd said, his weirdly high-pitched voice a lowered to a silken whisper; his inhuman, crimson eyes staring at me with a kind of wide, blank hope… _Owle Bullock hadn't mentioned anything about physical changes, but he never imagined anyone would want to make more than one Horcrux. I was sure the loss of Voldemort's looks was connected to how many times his soul had been divided. It's hard to believe a wizard as gifted as Tom Riddle would do something as foolish as breaking Adalbert Waffling's First Fundamental Law of Magic. I mean, it was in _Magical Theory_, on our first-year book list! I had it memorised before I even got on the train:

_Tamper with the deepest mysteries – the source of life, the essence of self – only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind._

"Isn't there a way of putting yourself back together again?"

_All the king's horses and all the king's men… _The nursery rhyme comes into my head and I can't help but smile at the ludicrous comparison. "Yes," I answer sadly, "but it would be excruciatingly painful. And he couldn't do it now anyway."

"Why?" Harry takes the book from me, running a hand along the embossed spine before flipping it open where I'd left my bookmark. "How do you do it?"

"Remorse," I sigh, "you've got to really_ feel_ what you've done. Not making the Horcrux, exactly, but the murder required by the Horcrux ritual. There's a footnote," I tap the miniscule type with a finger. "Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. But even if he wanted to – which is pretty unlikely – Voldemort can't possibly feel that kind of regret for murders he can't remember committing. Besides, setting aside the fact that he's lost his memory, I don't think he _can_ feel that kind of emotion anymore. The book implies that making a Horcrux costs you some of your humanity, so the more Horcruxes Voldemort made, the less able he would have been able to reverse the process."

"So how do we destroy them?" Ron asks as Harry passes the book back to me. Even touching it makes me feel nauseous.

"From what I've read, what Harry did to Tom Riddle's diary was one of the few ways to destroy a Horcrux. The book warns dark wizards that they had to make sure they cast _really_ strong protective enchantments on them and Voldemort obviously knew what he was doing, as I discovered, so–"

"Wait, you mean we have to stab Nagini with a _basilisk fang_?" Harry's mouth falls open.

"Oh, well, lucky we've got such a_ large _supply of basilisk fangs, then." Ron says, his words dripping with sarcasm, "I was wondering what we were going to do with them."

"It doesn't _have _to be a basilisk fang. Just something so destructive that the Horcrux can't repair itself and there are few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they're all dangerous to carry around with you. Ripping, smashing or crushing a Horcrux won't destroy it. And in Nagini's case, I doubt a simple _Avada Kedavra_ is going to do the trick. We could try, I suppose, but I don't think it would work. Owle Bullock never considered anyone using a living being as a Horcrux."

"Even if we do… you know… kill the snake," Ron says slowly, his brow pensive, "what's to stop the bit of soul in it just going and living in something else?"

I shake my head, "Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being." Seeing their non-comprehending stares, I rush into an explanation. "Look," I turned to Ron, "if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn't damage your soul at all."

Ron moves his hands to protect his torso from my invisible blade, making a face, "Which would be a real comfort to me, I'm sure!" Harry laughs and even I can't help but give a small smile. It's reassuring that even when we're contemplating evil like Horcruxes, Ron can still be Ron.

"It should be! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive untouched. But it's the other way around with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside of it depends on its container or – in Nagini's case – her body for survival."

"Hang on," Ron sneaks an arm around my waist, causing me to lose my train of thought and start to wriggle away, before deciding it actually feels quite nice there, snug around my midriff – especially when the conversation is giving me chills. "The bit of soul inside the diary was possessing Ginny, wasn't it? How does that work, then?"

"While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside the Horcrux can flit in or out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don't mean holding it for too long, it's nothing to do with touching it, I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary. She made herself incredibly vulnerable. You're in trouble if you get too close to a Horcrux."

"So basically," Harry interjects, "we not only have to hunt down the horcruxes, but something to kill them as well. If only I'd asked Dumbledore how he destroyed the ring…"

"Well, what about You-Know-Who?" Ron asks pointedly, "are we just going to keep him locked in Dad's garage while we go off and destroy all his Horcruxes?"

"We have to make sure he can't escape or hurt anyone while we're away," Harry's tone is one of fevered determination, a tight resolve in his eyes. "Then, when we've got them all… he dies." Ron is nodding vigorously and I find myself nodding too, despite the horrible feeling clawing it's up from the pit of my stomach._ It has to be done._

I consider the problem: "The Burrow is almost certainly the safest place, in any case. It's probably the most well-warded private domicile in Britain – definitely safer than Hogwarts right now. We've already proved that Death Eaters can't get in here. The only danger lies from the Ministry, but I doubt they'd ever think Arthur Weasley would hide He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his garage. The only reason they'd look in there would be for bewitched muggle devices, and I doubt those are high on their to-do list right now."

"So that's Snake-Face sorted – what about his pet Horcrux? I don't think Mum and Dad would appreciate that dirty great snake slithering around the garden, especially after the chunk it took out of Dad's leg."

Harry shoots Ron a careful glance, "We could just, you know, _not_ tell them… Hermione did make sure nothing can get in or out of that field."

Isn't there something we're forgetting? "You're forgetting about feeding her."

The boys give me twin incredulous stares. "She's a Horcrux, Hermione," Harry rolls his eyes, "as you just explained, she's not exactly going to starve to death."

"That's no reason to maltreat an animal, Harry! It's not_ her _fault her owner is a psychotic dark wizard who turned her into a Horcrux!" I can feel my face going red again.

"Are we, or are we not, talking about You-Know-Who's twelve-foot, _man-eating_ snake? Honestly, who cares?"

I shake myself out of his embrace and stand up, "_I_ care, Ronald Weasley! Just because we have to kill her eventually, it doesn't mean she should have to slowly starve for what could be months!"

"What are we going to feed her, then?" Harry asks sarcastically, "it's not like we have a ready supply of fresh bodies like Voldemort."

Something is wrong with Ron's face. His freckled face looks to be in the grasp of an unusually deep thought and, slowly, he stands up beside me. "Hermione's right." A warm glow seems to spread across my chest and my heart beats a little faster as Ron's hand settles on my shoulder. "We shouldn't starve an innocent snake." Harry's eyebrows shoot up at the word 'innocent' and he gives Ron a strangely knowing look. "And, you know, the snake seems to have taken a fancy to raw gnome, and we've got a huge infestation, so…"

"Ron!"

"What?"

"Gnomes are sentient creatures!"

"Oh for _Merlin's sake_, Hermione!" Harry groans, putting his face in his hands tiredly.

"What? You think we should feed her Aunty Muriel? Because that's one old biddy I wouldn't mind–"

I can feel the tears begin to roll down my face. Not wanting them to see me cry, I rush to the door, almost tripping over the books all over the floor. I slam the door behind me, leaning against it. _"She's mental…" _I hear Ron say in the silence behind the door, which just makes me sob harder. I don't even know why I'm crying… I just… I just… _I just don't want to see anyone else die._

**L.V.H.G**

I have managed to work out that my left arm works as a channel for magical energy and my hand is the long-fingered catalyst. If I focus on my sinister hand, my fingertips come alight with leashed, invisible, buzzing power. I can make my ropes curl and sway in the air like charmed serpents, water fall from the ceiling, I can make the cold floor burn with warmth so it is as though I am sitting next to the crackling comfort of a fire and – most wonderful of all – I can turn abused, bloody, blistered flesh back to unblemished white.

However, there are limitations. I appear to be unable to escape the garage itself which – as I suspected earlier – seems to be imbued with a force that prevents my escape even by magical means. And, try as I might, I am unable to make food appear. I'm sure that, if only I hadn't given Hermione my wand, I would be able to escape. Even if I know nothing about my past or, indeed, my present circumstances, I'd rather take my chances outside than face death at Alastor Moody's hands, or – even worse – slowly starve to death in this place.

I am very much afraid that Nagini has been captured by my jailers. I keep trying to call out to her but she does not hear me. _"Nagini… Nagini…!" _Nothing. I have only vague _notions_ of how much time has passed since I was imprisoned here. Perhaps a few days – perhaps a week? It is dark outside now. No one has come.

_Please let her be unharmed, please let her be safe! Nagini, Nagini… _my one true ally – a snake – gone. Something wet touches my cheek and I look up, thinking that the roof might still be dripping. It is not. My eyes are stinging and I realise where the water must be coming from. I choke back a sob and wipe my face, disgusted. Tears won't help me escape this place. _Nagini…_

…_Master? _It is a soundless whisper from nowhere.

"_Nagini? Where are you?"_

_In a field… There is a spell that runs around it. I cannot bite through. _The words aren't sounded at all, but echo about my head. Suddenly, it is as though I can see the blurred movements of the long grasses rustling above me, my senses bombarded with a plethora of strange smells… I _am _Nagini, manoeuvring my powerful body across the ground, coiling and striking against the invisible barrier which kept me from gliding underneath the fence.

Yet I am_ not_ Nagini and when I fling the full force of my will against the barrier it crumbles like a poorly-built sandcastle in the face of a great wave. I slip underneath the old fence, tasting the air with my tongue. I can smell the trails of tasty mice fleeing through the grass, and feel the distant scuttling of the gnomes just beneath my belly, under the ground. The dirt is vibrating with movements and I can taste humans in the distance.

Two humans move quickly across the yard: the colours of their luminous heat making my mouth water and the breeze tastes of human sweat. I can't make out their faces in the shimmer of their pumping blood, but I've not smelt either of them before. One of them is lame, his leg dragging ponderously. Easy prey. I follow him, keeping to the grasses so they cannot see me. They make their way into a great, shimmering crowd of humans and familiar tastes mixes with the unfamiliar. _Harry Potter_ – I have smelt him before, yes indeed, and _there _is the tasty flesh of the man from the Department of Mysteries; _Mmmmm_…

"Sorry to intrude," the lame one I have been hunting across the yard speaks, "especially as I can see I am gate-crashing a party... many happy returns."

"Thanks," I recognise Harry Potter's voice as well as his scent, his blood spiced with anger.

"I require a private word with you, also with Mr Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger." _Hermione Granger? What did the lamed human want with Hermione? _And now I can taste her: strawberry soap, cotton, spicy sweat, worry, dust and old books; her warm-blooded shape moving over to Potter's, the clearest thing the constant movements of her hair in the summer breeze. But the lame human is still talking: "…When we are somewhere more private. Is there such a place?"

"Yes, of course," and it is the voice of the man from the Department of Mysteries; yes, _yes,_ I remember his delicious smell and it was promised I could eat him and I _am _hungry… "The, er, sitting room. Why don't you use that?" Fear is in his body, but not as much as before. There had been so much fear. Delicious.

"You can lead the way," the lamed one addresses a different human, maybe the one he called Ronald Weasley? "There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur." _Arthur!_ Yes! Yes! Yes! _Arthur Weasley was the name of the tasty one! _But I couldn't be caught. Master was counting on me, master told me not to eat the humans – but he _did_ promise. He _promised me_ this one! And I need something more than tiny gnomes, something _substantial_…

_No._ I am _more_ than Nagini_. I am not Nagini!_ I will control myself. I will wait. The lame one and the three he called have gone. The humans talk, talk, talk. I will wait_. I will wait._ Not for Arthur Weasley, no... better than Weasley flesh.._._ tastier_… I am not Nagini. _Yes, I will wait for all the humans to go to sleep, like birds in a tree, yes, yes! And _then_… and _then_…!

_Wand._

**L.V.H.G**

I can't sleep, and I lie in bed staring down at the battered blue cover of _The Tales of Beadle the Bard. _I can't believe Dumbledore left me the wizarding equivalent of Hans Christian Andersen or Grimm's Fairy Tales!_Hope that I find them instructive? _I'd skimmed through it already – there was _nothing_ to help stop Voldemort in the book – only a collection of stories for small children. I feel insulted. _Is this Dumbledore's way of telling me to 'lighten up' from beyond the grave?_ I can't understand it.

_There must be something I've missed._ Dumbledore must surely have had a good reason to give me the book? I open it discontentedly, on a random page, my wand-light low so as not to wake Ginny:

…_There was once a handsome, rich, and talented young warlock, who observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love, gambolling and preening, losing their appetites and their dignity. The young warlock resolved never to fall prey to such weakness, and employed Dark Arts to ensure his immunity..._

I can't help but imagine the warlock as the young Tom Riddle, with the handsome face I'd seen in the 1943 Slytherin Yearbook and, as the story progresses, I am eerily reminded of _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

_...The young woman herself was both fascinated and repelled by the warlock's attentions. She sensed the coldness that lay beneath the warmth of his flattery and had never met a man so strange and remote..._

The blank crimson eyes swim into my mind and beneath them an almost mechanical smile. I shiver and draw my quilt closer.

… _Bidding her follow, he led her from the feast and down to the locked dungeon where he kept his greatest treasure. Here, in an enchanted crystal casket, was the warlock's beating heart. Long since disconnected from eyes, ears, and fingers, it had never fallen prey to beauty or a musical voice, to the feel of silken skin. The maiden was terrified by the sight of it, for the heart was shrunken and covered in long black hair. "Oh, what have you done?" she lamented. "Put it back where it belongs, I beseech you!"_

_Seeing that this was necessary to please her, the warlock drew his wand, unlocked the crystal casket, sliced open his own breast and replaced the hairy heart in the empty cavity it had once occupied. "Now you are healed and will know true love!" cried the maiden, and she embraced him–_

–The floorboards outside Ginny's room creak, making me look up from the book. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I put the book down on my pillow and creep quietly toward the door, opening it a crack and peering out into the hallway, chasing away the darkness with my wand. No one.

"Hermione?" I jump at the sound of Ginny's tired voice behind me. "Are you okay?"

I get back into bed, tucking my wand under my pillow. "Fine, I just thought I heard a noise…"

She groans in the dimness and adjusts her blankets. "This house creaks like Merlin's backside… well… goodnight."

"Goodnight, Ginny."

**L.V.H.G**

_Where are you? Where are you? _It's somewhere close. I _know_ it's somewhere close… The house is warm and full of warmer bodies. So many tastes on the air – all of them distracting; I slide across the floorboards, pushing a door ajar with my head. A human is lying on a bed, his chest rising and falling, his radiant heat is almost hypnotic this close – when I have not had a proper meal in _so long_. Yes, there is no warmth one of his legs. _It must surely be Alastor Moody. _And yes, there is – dimly, dimly… _yes_…

_Come, wand, come, come! _The wooden flooring vibrates with a heavy movement, the sound of metal locks turning: _clink-clinka-clink-clinka-clink! _The noise comes from a large, indistinct box-shape that tastes of old silver, greasy polish, dirty trails and magic fire. As the fifth lock opens there is a flash of movement and something sails out of the box to be caught neatly between my teeth. Rolling it against my tongue delightedly, I can feel the hum of its power in my mouth. Oh yes! This is _much better_ than a Moody-snack. It is all things good: dry scales, yew wood, a glowing hearth, ancient magic alive with the power of the cold visions! I coat it all-over with my saliva – trying to rid it of the sweaty-old-leather-Moody-boots smell which besmirches it.

I tap the door gently closed with my tail and slide my body down the steep stairway. Even the tasty Weasley-flesh does not tempt me. Master _must _get his wand. _I must get my wand! _There are several humans – their heat glowing in the yard – but they do not see me. They are looking for tall creatures like themselves, their keen eyes trained far above me.

The low building is waiting, its squat stones smelling of rubber and horrible muggle contraptions that make me feel ill. Last time I could not enter but now – _now_ I have the wand! Around the back of the building, near the gnome tunnels, I spark it against the stone. Just a _little_ hole, _no one will notice a little hole_… The magic tries to strike back at me, like a wounded creature, but I am stronger! The stone surface sizzles, its blunt magic burning along with it, _but there it is! _I push the wand through with my nose, hearing it _thud_ – yes, yes – against the stone floor on the other side…

_Me – me – me – me!_ Not Nagini! _Not Nagini!_

But there is darkness and nothing else.

**L.V.H.G**

I examine myself critically in Ginny's mirror. I'd used _massive _amounts of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion to make my hair fall into gentle curls instead of the usual one big tangle. Now I'm worried I used a bit too much; hopefully I won't end up looking like Professor Snape by the end of the evening. The floaty, lilac dress I'd originally bought for this year's Seventh-Year Hogwarts Graduation Ball looks really good, even though it makes me sad to think that I'm never going to sit my N.E.W.T.s and graduate.

Maybe I could apply to sit my exams by correspondence when the war was over? I'd spent some time early last year eyeing up the list of witches and wizards who'd won the Barnabas Finkley Prize in their year – awarded to the student with the highest N.E.W.T. scores. Of course, everyone knew that Albus Dumbledore had won it and I wasn't all at surprised to see that the winning student in 1945 had been a certain Tom Marvolo Riddle. But there had been a few surprises too – for instance, I had no idea that Bill Weasley had been awarded the prize, not to mention Lily Potter… I'd desperately wanted _my_ name on that list for 1997…

I sigh and peer at my make-up. Ginny had lent me the use of her eyeliner and enchanted lip-gloss. The over-all effect was quite pretty, though Ginny herself looked much more beautiful, like something out of one of her _Teen Witch _magazines. Pulling on the strappy little sandals I'd charmed to match the dress, I was confident that the whole effect would make a big impression on Ron and guarantee I looked half-decent in the wedding album, provided I didn't do anything too embarrassing.

More importantly, I now had everything packed so that Harry, Ron, and I could leave straight after the wedding and Mrs Weasley wouldn't suspect a thing. I smile and pose, holding the small, beaded clutch-bag against the lilac chiffon of my dress. _Pretty clever stuff, Granger, even if I do say so myself…_

One more once-over to make sure everything is packed and I clatter happily downstairs in the fancy sandals–

–almost crashing into an old woman in a huge, feathered pink hat. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you alright–?"

"Watch where you're going, young lady!" she snaps, her pink dress-robes and red-rimmed eyes – along with the feathers – making her appear rather like an ancient, plump, very irritated flamingo. "Well?" she draws herself up to her not very considerable height. "What do you call yourself?" She looks about a hundred years old.

I'm absolutely mortified. "Hermione Granger… look, I'm really sorry for–"

But she interrupts my apologies again, giving me an appraising glare: "Oh dear, the Muggle-born?" She clicks her tongue. "Hmm… bad posture and skinny ankles…" she mumbles, as if I'm not standing right in front of her.

I try to breeze through it, face hot. _My posture is fine! _"You must be Ronald's great-aunt…?" _Ron told me she was a rude old bag!_

"Yes dear, now if you'll excuse me, I have to lend my tiara to the bride. Goblin-made, you can always tell the difference, it's been in the Prewett family for generations. Very _old_ family, you know…" She brushed past me, clinging to the bannister, continuing to mumble. She's almost as rude as Kreacher. No wonder Ron suggested feeding her to Nagini.

"Hey Hermione!" Ron calls across the yard from over the garden fence. He's very tall and handsome in his dress-robes and embroidered waistcoat – not at all like the velvet horror he wore to the Yule Ball. Both the boys I've liked have been tall: Viktor and Ron. I walk over and a curious sight meets my eyes. About a dozen gnomes are stumbling around in a small pen, as though completely stoned, clutching their large, potato-shaped heads and their gruff voices making little "ooooh" sounds. "I've drugged them," Ron explains, grinning apologetically. "Fred gave me a potion. They won't feel a thing when we feed them to the snake. It's much better this way. More humane." The whole thing is suddenly absolutely hilarious: one of the gnomes reels off a string of awe-stuck obscenities, like some drug-addled rock star, and Ron gazes at me adoringly like I'm some sort of humanitarian saint, "You look _really good_ in that dress…"

I laugh and grab his arm, "Let's go, you moron." my cheeks are very pink, I'm sure, "otherwise we're going to be late for the wedding. We can feed Nagini afterwards."

**L.V.H.G**

…_The late evening air was cooling. I suppose it was almost the end of summer as I walked beside the hedgerows. The fine manor house awaited me atop the hill. But I could afford to take my time. The trees were beginning to trill pleasantly with birdsong, as the avian population settled down for the night. Morfin Gaunt had told me all that I needed to know about my father, the filthy muggle who had left me to rot in a London orphanage..._

_"…Tom Riddle? Why… he's a handsome lad… but Michael is… here, perhaps you'd prefer a younger boy…?_

_We were lined up, youngest to oldest while a couple strolled up and down. I did my best to appear cute and lovable. We all did. We all wanted to leave. But somehow I was always passed over – although they often liked my handsome face…_

_... The broken memories stir and twist bitterly as I continue up the road. This muggle had condemned me to a place where everyone considered me a freak, punished me, and tried to starve my "abnormality" out of me. I had wanted so badly to be taken home with one of those muggle families. But Mrs Cole always turned them against me, not wanting to inflict such a strange boy on any prospective parents. Eventually, I stopped wanting a family – I would rather not feel than have to watch yet another child be led away by smiling adults. Oh, I hated those smiles so much, knowing that Mrs Cole made sure there would never be smiles like that for me…_

I blink up at the ceiling. The vision is still burning it my mind, the sheer emotion of it in my previously blank memory is overwhelming. The hedgerows, the birds, the line of boys and girls in worn clothes and the beaming adoptive parents – all of it is so familiar – _so real!_ It cannot be anything but a shard of memory returned to me. A jumble of despair, bitterness and righteous anger assaults me, hollowing out my heart. _Tom Riddle_… so it is my name after all. Hermione did not lie. Yet I still cannot think of myself as Tom. The boy who stood in line was perfectly human, as was the young man who strode purposefully up the road. _How did this happen to me?_

Slowly, the strength of my recollection fades, leaving only a dull sadness in its wake. I can hear loud music – a folk band – beyond the walls of my humble prison. There is a great swell of voices, louder than any I have heard outside before. _"Here's to Fleur's husband!" _I can hear a man shout _"the luckiest wizard alive! "_This is followed by a great round of raucous cheering. I strike the floor with my fist – furious at being locked up and burdened with such bitterness while the unknown crowd outside celebrates.

Then my eyes alight on the length of dark, polished wood lying inconspicuously beside me. I snatch it up in my left hand, feeling the giddy rush of power sweep over me, sending green sparks into the air. The disturbingly surreal experience of having Nagini (or was it me as Nagini?) fetch my wand from Alastor Moody's trunk, was not a dream as I had first thought! For here it was – my wand! _My escape! _I bite back a somewhat hysterical laugh and slash my wand diagonally through the air–

–Only to find myself slamming backwards into the hard floor. I growl in frustration and walk over to the door, tapping my wand against the handle: _open. _There is a dim glow and the _click_ of the door unlocking itself. Someone is walking past: _"I'm just going to get some more champagne flutes from the kitchen! Don't transfigure anything while I'm gone – we have more of those enchanted French ones back at the house!"_

I stay perfectly still, my hand on the doorknob. I have several choices: I can try to sneak out now; I can wait until the party dissolves into a drunken stupor; or I can wait until it's over entirely and everyone has gone to bed. I tap the knob again: _close_. My prison seals itself. I think it would be best to wait until it's quieted down and there isn't anyone scuttling back and forth for more glasses or alcohol. I suppose I could… visit Nagini's mind to keep watch outside, but I'm loath to do that again. It was so disturbing and I have a horrible feeling I'd lose control this time and try to devour several guests. Last time I only just stopped myself from eating the man called Arthur Weasley. Next time I might not be so lucky.

I tuck my wand into a pocket of my robes, stroking it with my fingers, telling it to become invisible, which it obediently does, giving me a small pleasure. I gesture with my left hand and the ropes spring up from the ground, wrapping themselves tightly around me. If anyone comes in, their prisoner will seem perfectly secure. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, listening carefully to the noises from outside.

**L.V.H.G**

Ron keeps throwing Viktor dirty looks, wrapping his arms tighter around me as we dance together. I can't decide whether it's irritating or really sweet. He's a surprisingly good dancer. It's really nice to see Viktor again, but I… I think I want to be with Ron now. Being at a magical wedding is _amazing_! There's so much colour everywhere and everyone's done fantastic charm-work. Ron's leaning into me and I imitate him, bringing our bodies close as we dance slowly. _I think he might kiss me in a second…_

His blue eyes are staring into mine and my heart is fluttering. _It was so endearingly ridiculous what he did with the gnomes, just because he wanted to make me happy. We'll have to feed Nagini later before the potion wears out…_

…His mouth is moving toward mine... _wait! _"_Oh my god!_ RON!" Several people turn to stare, confused by my outburst. I lower my voice to an urgent whisper. _"We haven't fed You-Know-Who!"_ He's being lying tied up, injured, without food or water, for almost a week! _I hadn't even thought about it! _And I'll bet nobody else had either! Lupin had been staying with Tonks until the wedding, Arthur Weasley had been busy with the house, and Moody probably wouldn't give a damn if Voldemort starved to death.

Rushing over, I grab a large plate from the buffet table, piling it up with food, including a large piece of wedding cake, before running out of the marquee toward the garage, almost tripping over in my hazardous lilac sandals in my haste. Voldemort is lying against the wall, his eyes closed, probably passed out. I place the food on the floor and vanish the butterbeer out of my glass, filling it with water instead.

I creep up to him. "Hey… hey… are you awake?" At least the dittany I gave him seemed to have healed his injuries.

He stirs, red flickering into view beneath his eyelids. His face is so skeletal; his cheekbones sweep upward like angular wings, as if his white face is about to take flight. His one word is a weak hiss: _"Hermione?"_

I press the glass to his dry lips, "Here, I've brought you some water."

Silent gulps drain the glass in a thirsty rush. "Did you bring any food?" he asks at last, with almost no tone in his cold voice, just a request for the facts, as though my bringing food or not concerns him not at all. The only evidence is in how his ophidian nostrils dilate, as though sniffing the air.

"Right here…" I realise with an unpleasant twist in my gut that I'm either going to have to hand feed him or undo the ropes. I ward the door behind me and step back. "I'm going to untie your ropes so you can eat. If you try to come near me or the door, I'll jinx you, and there won't be any more food, is that clear?"

"Yes," he murmurs softly, his large crimson eyes firmly fixed on the plate of food. I wave my wand and the ropes fall away from him. His pale, spidery hands reach toward the plate, while his red gaze turns back to me as he watches me watch him eat. Even though he must be absolutely starving, he doesn't stuff his face like Ron would, but delicately breaks off a small chunk of cake with those absurdly long fingers and inserts it into his mouth. He starts coughing – an ugly, hissing, near-hyperventilation – and I almost abandon my post in front of the door. But it's over almost as soon as it starts and he's wolfing down the food tiny piece by piece, his hands moving unnaturally fast.

Gazing at him, I wonder again how anyone could ever want to turn themselves into such a creature. Who could be so afraid of death that they would pay such a price – and pay it over and over again, until they resembled nothing so much as a freakish serpent-human mutant? Voldemort had doomed himself even more than the warlock with the hairy heart. At least when _he _died, his suffering didn't carry over into the hereafter.

"You're staring," he says softly, looking up at me from the floor, his voice catching me unawares.

"Oh," I match his quiet tone. I desperately want to ask him about why he decided to make a Horcrux when he was only sixteen, but I know that right now he can't even remember his chosen name. "Sorry…"

He finishes the food in silence and I levitate the empty plate, refilling the glass so that he can have another drink before I leave. Voldemort's movements are eerily graceful in a way that is both fascinating and repulsive. His contrasting reflexes resemble those of a reptile: leisurely ease then lightning fast movement. I don't want to be in here facing his strange countenance any longer; I'd rather still be dancing with Ron. "Who is getting married?" he asks, as I redo his bindings and turn to go.

"Oh, Ron's… um… my friend's brother. I'll… I'll bring you some more food later, alright?"

He doesn't answer as I shut the door. It's a relief. I don't know what to do with his thanks. The last thing I want is from him is gratitude. I make my way back to the marquee, my festive mood spoiled. I glance around, trying to spot Ron and Harry. Viktor gives me a pleased wave from the other side of the dance floor. But just as I'm about to walk over to him, a large silver lynx lands unexpectedly between us, in the middle of the dance floor, causing the dancers to freeze in surprise; the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt booms from the patronus' mouth: _"The ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour_ _is dead. They are coming."_

It's chaos. Some people are fleeing; others are still sipping their champagne, loudly asking what's going on. An elderly wizard vanishes with a sharp crack, meaning the Burrow's wards have been destroyed. _Oh god. _Someone grabs my arm and I scream, but it's just Ron. I fumble around in my beaded bag and chuck him his rucksack and Harry's. "Get Harry and disapparate!" I scream. "I'll find you later!"

I sprint back toward the garage and behind me I can hear screams and the vicious crackle of spells. _I can't let Voldemort fall into the hands of the Death Eaters! _A ball of flame shoots out across the yard and I dive for the cover of the chicken coop where, bizarrely, I knock over Hagrid's wrecked motorbike. But I run on, ducking several stray hexes, making it to the garage and flinging open the door.

Voldemort is gone.

_He only had a couple of minutes! How could he–?" _I glance around desperately. In the moonlight, I can just make out a dark figure sprinting across the fields and off into the night. "_Accio_ racing broom!" I cry and, as I give chase, a broom somehow finds its way into my left hand. My sandals fall off as I fling myself onto the broom and accelerate over the long grass, screaming because I think I'm going to crash any second, but I've almost caught up with Voldemort. I glance back to see if we're being pursued, causing the broom to dip, sending the handle crashing into the ground. The broom's momentum catapults me forward into the murky swamp with a horrible, squelching splash. But I hurl my body forward through the mud, managing to tackle Voldemort's spindly legs and get a face-full of water just as – before I have time to wonder how or why – he swishes his wand down diagonally and we both leave the Burrow far behind.

**L.V.H.G**

_Next chapter: Hermione and Voldemort are finally off on their grand adventure, starting with Little Hangleton._


	5. The Riddle House

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The fifth chapter of the rewrite. I've done something different where vows are concerned (for those who read the original) which will make quite a bit of difference to the story. Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter! Special hugs and snaky kisses for all of you!

**Chapter Five: The Riddle House**

Something collides roughly with my knees, pushing me forward through the gut-whirling vortex of magic which spits me out to plant – face first – in the middle of a country lane. I hiss in pain as my chin hits the road, trying to struggle out of the clutches of the filthy swamp-creature that clings to my legs. It raises a wand to attack me and, instinctually, I fling my magic at it first, blasting it off me and into a hawthorn bush at the edge of the road. There is a shrill yelp and desperate rustling.

I pick myself up, rubbing my jaw with my right hand, my fingers coated with stickiness as I try to wipe the blood away. I move forward cautiously, wand trained on my attacker. _No one is putting me back in that garage! _The hawthorn bush quivers and bellows _"Impendimenta!"_

I dive sideways, out of the way of a jet of brilliant scarlet light_. Stop! _I command the creature, angling my wand at the bushes. There is silence. An owl calls mournfully in the distance. I raise my wand again, using my magic to float my attacker out of the leaves and into the air before me. Finally, _I _am the one in control, the one with the wand. It is a most pleasurable feeling, to finally be free from that torturous garage and have a captive of my own.

A large tangle of leaves and hair, soaking wet and covered in mud, wearing the torn remains of an indescribable garment, with lovely – but filthy – legs moving down to attractively tapered ankles and small, bare feet. The girl-woman appears to be frozen in a warlike crouch, her wand on the offensive. _"Hermione?" _I whisper softly, wonderingly, and of course she does not answer. And yes, perhaps that ripped and mud-splattered clothing could once have been her delicate lilac dress?

I pause. If this had been Alastor Moody or Harry Potter I would have no qualms about putting them through the same agonies they caused me to suffer, before making very sure they could never hunt me down again. But this was _Hermione_… yet Hermione had tried to stop my escape. Given the chance, Hermione would report my location back to her friends and they would attempt to capture me again – I can't allow that to happen. I _won't _go back to that hell-hole…

But my spell had brought me to Hermione – she had soothed my burns from Alastor Moody's evil ropes – she protected me from Harry Potter's ire and brought me food… However,_ she_ had been the one to betray me to her associates. She…_ she does have quite beautiful legs_… I lower her body down to rest on the road.

Perhaps she could be persuaded to abandon her old associates? She _had_ been angry at Moody and Potter, maybe she was disenchanted with them? With so much I do not remember, it would be very helpful to have a knowledgeable companion to assist me in avoiding the authorities. _Wake up, _I flick my wand, _wake up but remain bound… _I have learnt nothing over the past week if not caution. Her eyes stutter open and she gazes up at me. Despite her impassive face, I can see in the rigidity of her features that she is terrified. Although I have not Nagini's acuity, it is almost as if I can smell her fear in the night air. She does not speak.

"I should kill you," I tell her plainly, wanting to impress upon her the severity of her situation. "Yet… I do not forget that you have helped me. So I will offer you a choice." She continues to stare at me with expectant silence, her eyes following me in the darkness as I begin to pace. "Either you will forsake your old associates and remain to assist me to the best of your abilities, or you may return to your companions in the knowledge that I will be long gone from this place by the time you return with them to capture me."

The night envelops her muteness. Finally, in a very small voice, she says: "I will stay."

**L.V.H.G**

He is as I remember him at the Department of Mysteries. The fact that his black robes are ragged only serves to make him more threatening. His red eyes shine with a strange light in the deserted lane and he paces before me with the predatory grace of a jungle cat. Indeed, like a cat, his slit-eyes are almost luminous. It is impossible to tell what he's thinking as he towers over me, his pale, waxen features mask-like. The blood dripping from chin, running down the pallid neck, in no way detracts from the man's menace. He _is_ Lord Voldemort – memory or no memory.

_It's the right decision._ I can't apparate back to a Burrow overrun by Death Eaters. I've no idea where Ron and Harry are by now either. Besides, I've found out (the hard way, unfortunately) that Voldemort has obviously remembered more than we thought, which means he will be able to remember more. If I stay with him and gain his trust, I can learn his secrets at the same time as making sure he doesn't fall into the hands of his Death Eaters – otherwise known as the Ministry of Magic – while hopefully helping Harry and Ron from a distance with information about the Horcruxes. If I leave, who knows what would happen? The consequences could be anything from mild to catastrophic. It's a stupid, foolhardy, Gryffindor plan just_ full_of holes, but I have to make a decision _now_ and there's a reason I didn't get sorted into Ravenclaw.

He leans down; the long fingers of his right hand reach toward me, making me flinch involuntarily. The skeletal fingers grasp my helplessly limp left hand and for half a crazy second I think he's going to kiss it. But instead he taps it with his wand. "Swear it," he says simply, his voice is quiet, yet it seeps through me like a chill breeze and I shiver.

"I swear," I answer and, to my surprise and horror, a tendril of golden thread curls around our hands like a tiny snake before vanishing into the night. _That isn't possible! _No magical vow or binding spell can be activated without a third party or enchanted object acting as the binder! In fifth-year it took me _ages _to charm my ink to act as the binder which sealed the vow the DA member made to the bespelled list not to betray the group – and their punishment, if they betrayed us. "How did… h-how did you _do _that?" I can't stop the words.

He examines my shock, and his crimson eyes widen with what might be curiosity. "I told my magic to make sure you kept your promise. Is that not what you would do in my position?" I realise that he's taken off the petrification jinx and slowly stand up, my legs wobbly underneath me_._ I feel like absolute – _wait, is he saying what I think he's saying?_

_Oh._

_My._

_God._

_He's making it up as he goes along! _Even with non-verbal spellwork, it's necessary to sound out the incantation in your head. You need to be able to visualise the exact spell, it's every detail, and perform the correct wand movements. It's _not possible_ for a wizard to run around, randomly swinging his wand about, doing _ad hoc_ magic. No one would need to go to Hogwarts, otherwise. The reason we revere Merlin, besides his great magical powers, is because he was supposedly the first Briton who devised spells. He carved runes into his oaken staff and invented spells – words of power – which he passed down to his students. Without spells, no one would be able to do much more than the uncontrolled, accidental magic of children, or rituals which require a large number of participants. The idea of Voldemort being able to do spell-less magic is… terrifying.

"It's very similar to magic without a wand, really, except I have a much greater reservoir of power at my disposal…" _And he can do it without a wand. _It means that Lord Voldemort is… potentially more powerful than Merlin. A psychopath suffering from amnesia – and probably a plethora of other mental problems – could be _more powerful than_ _Merlin_. And I'm alone with him, at night, in a deserted country lane.

It's hard to read his distorted features as he stares at me. I try not to show my fear. But then he turns away – allowing me to breathe again – and wanders off down the road. "Come along…" he calls in his high, cold voice. I could hex him right now and run, but I've got no clue what the magical consequence for breaking my promise might be. I don't even know if _he_ knows what the consequence might be! I quickly clean myself up a bit (actually feeling clean and untangling my hair will have to wait), pull a pair of sneakers out of my beaded bag and shove them onto my bare feet, before hurrying off after Voldemort – who seems to glide down the lane like a Dementor.

**L.V.H.G**

The road was different in my vision. Trees twine above me, obscuring the moonlight. In the vision, the house was clearly visible atop the hill beyond, but it too is blotted out by thick foliage. The memory must have been a very old one, as many of the trees which look ancient now were little more than saplings in my mind. For the first time, I wonder about my age. I had loosely assumed myself to be in my thirties, judging by a general lack of age indicators and the fact that Hermione had mentioned that I had been disembodied – I am still wondering about _that_, actually – for thirteen years. But perhaps my body is as unnatural in age as it is in form?

_Nagini! _I call across the nameless space that exists between me and my snake.

_Master, where are you? Your servants have killed many humans here. I was so sick of gnomes! _I can taste the freshly cooling blood as she bites; feel the slide as her jaw dislocates in order to swallow down more flesh. I try to disentangle our minds, attempting unsuccessfully to distance myself from the pleasure of her meal.

_I do not know. Will you be safe with my servants?_

She is in an ebullient mood. _Oh yes, my master, my beloved_. _They cannot harm me – your magic coats my scales well! But I do not think it would be wise for you to return if your spirit is still wounded._

I am cautious of facing those who profess themselves to be my followers. Nagini told me that they would turn on me if they sensed weakness and I have no desire to blunder into them without more knowledge of what to expect... I do not like to be without Nagini, but... she could be a useful informant where she is...

Footsteps sound heavily behind me. "Where are we?" Hermione's wild hair is now tied back, her face scrubbed clean. In addition to her ruined dress, she now sports some rather awful-looking – presumably recreational – footwear. I can still taste the corpse on Nagini's tongue and have to fight the impulse to retch.

"I dreamt of this road…" I explain, not wanting to go into detail about the source of my vision.

"So… you don't know where it goes?" She seems to be making an effort to appear casually unafraid, but her voice is higher than normal and she cannot seem to look me in the eyes. It might amuse me if the situation were not so grim.

The road twists and there it is: a manor house atop a hill; glimpses of handsome stone visible through the shroud of ivy which clings to its façade. It's a clear night tonight, and behind the house are scattered stars like silver dust. I am right: many years have passed since I was last here. "I know where it goes. Do you know when I killed my father, Hermione?" I ask, as we both stare up at the house.

"Umm… you must have been in your fifth year, so… that would make it… nineteen-forty-three?"

"Fifth year of what exactly… and what year is it now?"

"Your fifth year of school – you were fifteen." She is disgusted by it. After my vision, I can no longer feel horror at the prospect of my father's death, although I am surprised that I had such bloody, single-minded_purpose _at fifteen. "And it's nineteen-ninety-seven."

"Fifty-four years ago…" I whisper the date to myself. _Seventy! Who would believe it? _I sigh, glancing over at her. She is tight-lipped, as though steeling herself to something. I catch her eye and smile down at her reassuringly. "Well… let's keep going…" She blanches and gives a shudder. Perhaps smiling was inappropriate?

**L.V.H.G**

He's doing the same thing we are – shifting through his past trying to find answers. Maybe there's a Horcrux hidden inside his father's house? Somehow, I doubt it. Riddle had already hidden one Horcrux in Little Hangleton: the ring. I doubt he would hide two so close together. Besides, he revered his Gaunt lineage and despised the muggle Riddles. Why would he want to place a Horcrux in their old home? The grounds are unkempt and an equally empty-looking cottage rests close by, ivy slowly taking it over as well. It must have been where Frank Bryce lived – the muggle gardener Voldemort murdered. When Harry told me about him I looked it up in the papers. According to the muggle media, Mr Bryce had suffered a heart attack.

The manor makes me think of a haunted house, with its undisturbed, gloomy decrepitude. It's a silly thought, of course. I mean, _Hogwarts_ is haunted! But this place would give the Shrieking Shack a run for its money. Scratch that – the Shrieking Shack was just a rumour, but I _know_ this place was home to at least four homicides, if not more. Facts, as usual, are_ far_ more worrying than fiction.

The murderer himself stares up at the house, looking just as nervous as me, if not more so. He stares at the door with those frightening eyes, his tall figure very still. It's windy up here on the hilltop, and his dark robes flutter about him; one might almost believe him to be a ghost himself. After what seems like an age, his raises his wand and unlocks the door. I draw in breath, realising suddenly that I've been forgetting to breathe. Slowly, I follow him inside.

We cross the threshold, leaving the summer moonlight behind, our wands giving light to a musty, wood-panelled entrance hall. The walls are covered in cobwebs and graffiti. Voldemort seems to be in the grip of intense emotion, his crimson eyes wide and wondering, lipless mouth slack. I realise that his feet are bare as he strides across the filthy floor, gazing upward, moving toward a doorway. Then his whole body arches back, and he collapses with a sharp cry, scattering dust and debris.

Lying on the floor with his eyes closed amidst decay, he looks dead already, just bones wrapped in white skin. I tentatively touch his arm – he's very cold, even though the August heat is stifling in here without the breeze. But his eyelids are flickering slightly, in the grip of some interior sight. Beyond him, through the open doorway, I can see into a dust-laden dining room.

**L.V.H.G**

…_They sat there, the three of them staring at me haughtily. I did not know what I had expected – fear, contrition? My eyes found my muggle father easily, my mirror image, except his face had more colour, and as he stood up I could see that I was taller than him, even at fifteen. Our features even bore similar expressions of outrage. I can hear Morfin Gaunt's voice in my ears as I draw his wand: "You look mighty like that muggle…" I know that blood cannot be as important as others would have us believe. Or else they would not have abandoned my mother and left me to the puritanical horrors of Wool's Orphanage. If they were truly my family they would not, __**could not**__ have left me! Family, after all, must be subjective. So it is not patricide I commit… but merely murder (I do not think there is a word for killing one's grandparents, in any case). My first real murder – the mudblood in the bathroom did not count, however useful, that kill belonged to Slytherin's noble beast, not his heir…_

_Had I truly entertained hope that my father would deserve anything but death? Did I, in my weakness, think – for a moment – to see the longed-for smile on the face of this fool who gave me his name? The trap set for orphans like myself, that secret dream that one day, someday… but no. There were no parental smiles for me, and there never would be. It was a relief that my father raged. If the filthy muggle had tried deception rather than anger, I might have been undone. As it was, I found it remarkably easy to kill him and the deaths of my grandparents were almost an afterthought..._

…A deep, old anger simmers in my chest, like a boiling chamber with no vents, getting hotter and hotter. My wand slices through the air and the table breaks in the middle. Dust cascades down to cling to my black cloak. I scream, infuriated, and scramble up from the floor – the_ despicable _muggle! _I want to see the light leave his eyes! And my mother was no better! A weak witch who abandoned her son! I will have the pleasure of making myself a true orphan – casting myself adrift from this man who did not deserve the honour of being my father! _A hand catches my wand-arm and I spin round, ready to rend it to shreds. But it is not my father, but Hermione Granger's visage staring up at me, her brown eyes full of the ever-present fear.

Was it foolish of me to come to this place? Do the secrets held within the walls of this old house bear the knowing of them? A hopeless feeling overtakes me. _What was the point of seeking to recover such memories if they would only drive me to terrible anger? _Did I _want_ to feel such things? Was it not far better to survey my life from this removed position rather than immersing myself in it, its pain and carnage? My mind is that of a serial murderer, but the loss of my memories shields me from the man Hermione's associates wish to destroy. Perhaps I should just leave – leave and settle far, far away, embracing my amnesia as a chance at new life. I am struck with a powerful desire to preserve this second innocence I have been granted; to forget the taste of human flesh and the lust for murder; to forget the mystery of the aptly-named Tom Riddle.

Dizziness overwhelms me and I fall again…

…_Though nestled in the curve of a chair, swaddled in black blankets, I still felt cold. In a moment, I will ask the rat to move me closer to the fire so I can feel its heat caress my skin. The fireplace was my favourite thing about my filthy father's old home. The only thing of worth I had inherited from him, now that I had squandered my handsome face. But I did not mind that. I hated my father, why should I want to look like him? I could not wait until I had my old serpentine body back, and my old strength. I was so majestic… I dreamt of it, that body. Every night. I had been like some Egyptian god from ancient times: the body of a man and the head of a snake._

_There never seemed to be enough breath in my frail lungs, every whisper I uttered was taxing. My head rested against the moth-eaten upholstery and my weak, raw, blackened-red, fingers were almost too long for my tiny wrists to support, barely capable of directing the wand they clung to so tightly. I hated it. But at least I had a body, pitiful though it was. It was my dignity I tried to salvage, minute by minute, not my existence. If not for the fact that I knew I would surely lose even this meagre form if I gave Pettigrew his wish to go and find me a wizard other than Harry Potter, I might have given in to his tearful pleading long ago, loath though I was to use any blood but that of the Boy Who Lived. "Wormtail!" My cry was a shrill, painful screech that robbed me of the little strength I had remaining. He did not come. I had to call again. It took me several minutes to gather myself. "I require feeding!"_

_At last he shambled over, and I dissolve into anger and relief. I, who always prided myself on my independence – on my ability to exist happily without help from anyone – was utterly reliant upon this next-to-useless coward. He lifted me up with his warm, plump hands, eyes averted. I knew I disgusted him. I could have been a particularly slimy Lobalug, dredged up from the bottom of the North Sea, and he would have been less revolted. He preferred not to meet my gaze, and in truth I did not resent it, for it meant that I never had to see my appalling countenance reflected back at me in his mind._

_I was almost grateful as he rested my heavy head in the crook of his elbow, to prevent it lolling painfully – too heavy for my feeble neck. The comfort of being held so close was stripped by his nauseated expression. I felt so tired, so small, and with his every cringe my fury increased ten-fold. His hand shook as he held the bottle of snake venom and unicorn blood to my lips; there was a syrupy quality to it and I gurgled the fluid greedily. In his nervousness he jolted me and some went up my nostrils, making it impossible to breathe. I shrieked and he dropped me hard onto the rug, knocking the scant breath from my lungs and making me to throw up the little of the potion I had managed to drink; the venom made my face sting. Yet I cannot even lift my head out of my own sick, or crawl away. My body was a helpless fusion between child and monster, my skeletal arms and legs were too long and too wasted to be of any practical use. He gathered me up again, muttering useless apologies and carefully wiping the vomit from my flat face with a handkerchief, while I imagined vividly the torture I would inflict upon him for his infernal clumsiness._

_Yet… yet… better this fool than someone like Bellatrix Lestrange. Better to be reliant on a cowardly rat than on a sop who would coddle me like the baby I resembled, who would presume to mother me and forget I was the Dark Lord. This, at least, was still a transaction of power and fear... But it was I who woke, shivering with cold – screaming at the pain that threatened to rip my fragile body apart – in the middle of the night, who forgot who I was, desiring nothing so much as being surrounded by the physical warmth of another being. Weakness. Tears pricked my eyes – anger, frustration and self-pity – but all I could do was drink from the proffered bottle, otherwise this pathetic body would be dead within days…_

I gasp at the pain I feel – so much worse than with the last vision. "I don't want it…" I shake my head, refusing to let the tears come again. _"I don't want it!" _I let myself slide down the panelling, onto the mouldy carpet, cradling my head in my hands and my wand rolls across the floor. "Make it stop… _please make it stop…!"_

Breath against my ear, "Stop what? What's wrong?"

"The _memories_…_!_" I draw a great, shuddering breath, trying to calm myself. _"You can't imagine… _Better to know nothing. Better to never remember _at all_… I… I _don't want_ to be Tom Riddle. I want to be someone else, _anyone _else…" Inevitably, the tears come now, streaking silently down my face. Something warm touches my shoulder. I lean into the heat, still unable to master my emotions, throwing myself into the arms to reassure myself that I'm still human, clinging to her with all my strength. She doesn't shudder like Wormtail. She doesn't pull away.

"It'll… it'll be okay… shhh… it's going to be okay… you're hyperventilating. Just… breathe… okay? _Breathe_…" Hermione's hand moves gently up and down my spine and I close my eyes and bury my face in her hair. Swamp water and strawberries. _Weakness._ But I don't care – better to be weak than alone with the horrors that are all that my mind is capable of giving back to me. "What happened? You had some kind of seizure…_breathe_…"

I struggle to find my voice, while part of me still lies helpless and enraged on the rug, fighting for breath through the sticky, silver potion in my nostrils. I try to speak, but all that comes out of my mouth is hysterical hissing and spitting, as if there are no words in English to describe it. I try to obey her, gulping down stale air, but my throat is constricted, my lungs heaving. She wraps herself tighter around me and – at last – something gives, allowing me to speak again. But I don't want to. I just want to lie here, silently wrapped up in Hermione's warmth. It is even better than sitting next to a fire; her hand still strokes my back.

"Thank you." I say finally, still refusing to withdraw from the embrace but recognising it is almost time to do so.

"What happened?" she asks me again, extricating herself from my arms, shuffling over to lean against the wall beside me, her dirty knees drawn up in front of her. I feel a sharp pang as she withdraws, the chill of her departure from my skin. But I do not reach for her again. We both sit, looking at the spider-filled ceiling rather than each other. Except that, since she has not my night vision, she probably can't see the spiders. I think there are rats too… creeping about underneath us. _I don't want to think about rats._

"I remembered… memories tied to this house. My father's death… and being a child here…" It is an effort, but my voice is calm, thankfully unemotional.

She frowns, "But you didn't grow up here. You were brought up in a London orphanage." Hermione says it as if she is an academic authority on my history, lecturing me.

"Not _that_ kind of childhood!" I hiss at her, my fury returning, making her flinch backward just like the rat. I soften my voice. I don't want her to draw back; I don't want to frighten her. "I was a child in nothing but form, tended by that rat! I… I think I'm going to be sick…" I scrabble away from her and vomit what was doubtlessly once wedding cake into a large, dust-caked china vase.

**L.V.H.G**

Despite his appearance, there is a world of difference between this man and Voldemort. He was so horribly distraught I instinctually reached out to him. Harry hardly ever uses Parseltongue, but when he does it's a controlled – if eerie – sound. _This _was like a lost migrant forgetting the little English he knew and resorting to a desperate barrage of words in his non-comprehensible native tongue. I move a hand over the spine which sticks up from his back like a length of knotted rope, trying to get him to calm down enough to breathe and remember how to speak English.

For all his great height, he's thinner than me under his robes. I can feel little but bones as I hold his hissing, sobbing, gasping body close. It's so surreal – one moment I was dancing with Ron at Bill and Fleur's wedding, and now I'm trying to calm down a hysterical Lord Voldemort. It must be nearly three o'clock in the morning. His wand has rolled into darkness of the dining room, where I can just make out the white of a tablecloth. I make no move to get it, too occupied with the frantic wizard beside me.

After he throws up into an antique vase, the thought finally gets through to me – Merlin, I've been so _stupid!_ The reason he's so upset. He couldn't remember _anything_; a blank canvass. Most victims of retrograde amnesia – or even obliviates – usually find that something traumatic underlies their forgetfulness. And, for Voldemort… practically his _whole life_ was traumatic! Throwing memories such as _Voldemort's_ into an innocent void could easily – understandably! – be the cause of the frantic hysteria I'd just seen. Harry has nightmare after nightmare around the little he'd seen of the inside of Voldemort's skull.

And what had _we_ done? We'd tied him up, tortured him, and starved him for five days. I'd been more concerned with feeding _Nagini _than him. So far, the void had been filled with nothing but suffering.

Suddenly, I want to protect this man from the past that could easily swallow what's left of his sanity. No matter that he is only a seventh of a human being, and responsible for so many atrocities… all I can see is a broken creature, obviously horrified at his own evil.

"It's past three am…" I say quietly. "Let's find somewhere to sleep and think about what to do next in the morning." I summon his wand from the other room and hand it over to his shaking fingers, deliberately building up the trust between us.

The red eyes are glazed over, trapped in his recollections, but as he takes his wand he snaps out of it, blinking at me. "There will be beds upstairs…" he nods, seemingly relieved at my practical suggestion.

"Right," even in my exhausted state, there's something empowering about ordering a distressed Lord Voldemort around, as if I were talking to Ron or Harry. "I'm going to go outside and ward the house so that no one will be able to see we're here. Why don't you go and clean up two bedrooms for us?"

**L.V.H.G**

There are the sheddings of a snake in the upstairs corridor. I can smell Nagini's unique scent. Opening the first door, I can see a familiar fireplace covered in old ash, a rotten hearth-rug, and an ancient-looking armchair… I slam the door, rejecting the room and its memories. I open the next door. It's a bathroom. There are broken bottles in the porcelain sink and the bath is stained with an argent substance – almost like molten metal. Traces around the rim indicate that the bath was once full of the strange liquid. _Blood, _my mind supplies, _this bath was filled with blood. _But it doesn't make sense – blood isn't _silver_.

I sigh and move my wand in a broad sweep about the bathroom, watching as my magic restores the blue room to its former state, cleaning away the silvery rime and even righting the boards that have been nailed across the window. I catch sight of white skin in the vanity above the sink and turn away from my reflection, unwilling to confront it. I focus on minutiae in an effort to forget my situation by immersing myself in practicalities.

My powers easily turn rotten mattresses to new and smashed wooden shards to serviceable furniture. It looks like the bedrooms have been redecorated since the forties. I am merely grateful for the house's generous proportions, which mean I do not have to duck under every doorframe. I take for myself the main bedroom, not because of any sense of entitlement, but because it must surely have belonged to Mr and Mrs Riddle rather than their unmarried son – Hermione can have my father's bedroom. Oddly, sleeping in my murdered grandparents' bedroom doesn't bother me. But I cannot_ bear_ the idea of sleeping in my father's bed...

Not for anything.

**L.V.H.G**

…_I moved my long, yellow body up a thorny tree; I was hungry. Eating as a snake was something I liked_. _The adrenalin and the satisfaction of sinking my teeth into a warm body made my nostrils tingle._ _Birds' eggs_: _I could hear the pulse and smell the blood and membrane that cushioned the little being inside the smooth, elliptical surface. My teeth drove through the shell and the contents oozed out all over my face and dripped into the nest – glorious._

_Time passed, as I slept in the small hole I had dug as another snake. Many snakes, many lifetimes converged in my memory. I had been birds too and other creatures: but snakes dominated my recollection – I felt more at home in them than I ever had inside Quirinus Quirrel. To have come so close…_

…_And to have once again lost everything to Harry Potter. I had to be realistic – this would likely be my eternity. I could not hope to run across another wizard as susceptible as Quirrel. And my Death Eaters... my Death Eaters had abandoned me. They believed me vanquished. I bit into the second egg, enjoying the primal pleasure of sinking my teeth into the unhatched chick. Yet it sickened me. I had lost. I would never again feel the uncanny rush of my yew wand. I was reduced to possessing animals to stave off madness – to retain my mind in the face of the pain. Perhaps someone would come? One loyal servant – was it too much to ask?_

_No one was coming. I knew that now. It had been two years since Quirrel died. No one was coming._

**L.V.H.G**

Sunlight streams into the room. Birds are singing and clattering and squawking – I think they may be nesting in the roof. I roll over in the crisp cotton sheets, sighing into my pillow. My memories of last night are so surreal I can hardly believe what happened. I'd promised to help Voldemort and he'd sealed my words with his magic. However, I hadn't promised not to help Harry as well. I'm pretty certain my promise won't stop me from communicating with my friends.

I force myself out of the comfortable bed, adjusting my pyjamas, and take my wand out from under the soft pillow. _You'd never guess this place was a wreck only a few hours ago_. I wish we'd had magic like Voldemort's when we had to clean up Grimmauld Place two years ago. I concentrate hard on the happiest memory I can think of – a warm smile, closed blue eyes, and soft breath in my ear… _"Expecto Patronum!" _Silvery magic sparkles in the morning sunlight and my otter scoots playfully out of my wand. Happiness wells up within me just watching the luminous, carefree creature swim through the air. _I'm safe and I'm got You Know Who somewhere safe so I can find out more information and to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone or get found by the Ministry. _The otter gazes at me curiously, hovering at the window as I open it, and I can feel the cool breeze on my face._ I miss you two… _I smile and flick my wand. "Go on…!" The otter patronus shoots out the widow, a sliver of silver on the wind.

I lean out the window, resting my arms on the sill. In the daylight, Little Hangleton isn't sinister at all. From my window atop the hill, I can see a gathering of picturesque two-story, thatched cottages, clumped around a narrow, cobbled main street. There are only a few modern buildings. It's just possible to make out a muggle washing his car. A lovely stone church sits on the outskirts of the village, facing the manor house. I can hear the distant whine of a lurid green combine harvester whirring its way across a field. Normal.

I could be staying in a boutique hotel; Voldemort did such a good job on my room. Maybe a stately home converted into a bed and breakfast by a husband and wife who couldn't bear to part with their house, but who needed some extra money during the summer to in order to maintain their ancestral home. As if, any minute now, Mrs Riddle might knock on my door and ask me how I like my eggs.

But the hallway is a cobwebbed shambles and the Riddle family are dead. The only other occupant of the house is in the bedroom three doors down from mine and he was the one who killed them. _I wonder if he cleared up the bathroom?_

He _did_, to my great relief. The only evidence I'm in an abandoned house are the rough boards nailed across the window. I shut the door behind me and put my beaded bag down on the polished, dark-wood floor. Curiously, seven empty glass bottles are lined up beside the toilet. I lean over the white bathtub and spin the hot tap, not really expecting anything to happen – both the water and power are almost certainly disconnected… But there's a grating _glug-glug-glug _noise from inside the wall and freezing cold water spits out of the tap like artillery fire. The water swirling around the plug hole looks very brown against the gleaming porcelain of the tub. However, a simple purification charm combined with a heating spell, are all I need to have myself a well-deserved bath.

Putting my head under the water and washing my hair feels wonderful. But I feel cold stepping out of the water and have to rummage around in the little bag for a towel and a change of clothes. As I brush my hair, I frown into the bathroom mirror, biting my lip. Gone is yesterday's pretty, sleek-haired girl. It's plain Hermione Granger today, with her bushy hair and practical clothes. Although, to be honest, I'm not sorry to be rid of the strappy sandals – they were just annoying.

Opening the bathroom door, I startle at finding myself vis-à-vis a chest draped in loose-fitting black robes, looking upward to meet an increasingly familiar pair of scarlet eyes, which gaze down at me with interest. _"Strawberries…" _Voldemort murmurs, his flat nostrils dilating as he tilts his head to one side.

I take a step back. "It's my shampoo," I run a hand through my hair unconsciously. "You can – uh – borrow it if you like? Were you waiting for the bathroom? Sorry for taking so long, I was having a bath, after falling into the swamp back at the Burrow I felt I really needed it… Anyway, the water works and…"

His interested expression does not waver; he hasn't so much as blinked. He just stares at me and I realise I've been talking to cover my nervousness. I close my mouth, staring right back at him. At last, he slowly whets his mouth with his tongue, preparing to speak. "I'm afraid I haven't any use for hair products, but thank you all the same. You smell lovely."

I can feel myself flush in mortification. "Er…_ t-thanks_… I'll… um… I'll get out of the way so you can use the bathroom."

"You've no need to hurry. I've been up since sunrise." Voldemort gives the mechanical smile that doesn't reach his livid eyes; he's a different person this morning. Gone is last night's manic hysteria. This morning's Voldemort is calm to the point of indifference. His smile is disturbing – without lips to curve, I realise, smiling is just pulling back your skin to reveal teeth. "…I was just about to knock on the door to inquire how you like your eggs."

"…"

"Apparently, the muggle caretaker kept chickens. They've gone rather feral down the back of the property."

**L.V.H.G**

I watch her as I boil the eggs. Not in a pot, but by tapping my wand against their sand-coloured shells, my magic slowly cooking them. The kitchen windows are completely boarded up, so I'd conjured a bevy of candles, which Hermione then floated prettily into the air above the wide, kitchen table. She spreads her books across it, pouring herself over them under the candlelight, her glorious hair falling over her face and the pages of her heavy grimoires, a rich river of curling, rebellious chestnut. For a moment, as the smell of eggs begins to interfere with the scent of strawberries and old parchment, I imagine her naked under all that hair, writhing on the top of her curious mobile library, in an ecstasy of knowledge. I turn away, noticing her shift her head, about look up from _The Magic of the Mind_. _Seventy, indeed!_

"According to this, fully obliviated subjects – that's those who have suffered a complete loss of memory – have occasionally been able to still perform magic. It's especially common with witches or wizards who worked in jobs which require more than the usual amount of spellwork. Well, that makes sense – it becomes instinctual. And being a Dark Lord would definitely fall into that category... You haven't suddenly developed the ability to do magic without spells. You're just unconsciously casting ones you _do_ know – you have the intention required by non-verbal spellwork and your procedural memory recalls the rest!" For some reason, as she pushes her hair back, relief crosses her features. And, for another equally incomprehensible reason, this irritates me.

"What about magic without a wand?"

Her excitement dies down a little. "Well… Dumbledore _did_ say that you developed an almost unheard-of control over your magic, even before you received your wand. Most magical children can only perform magic in states of high emotion and even then it's almost always uncontrolled. That's what it said in _Raising Good Witches_."

But before I can ask her who Dumbledore is, or point out that a child in an almost constant state of 'high emotion' would probably soon work out how to manifest his abilities at will, a large silvery _something_ gallops swiftly into the kitchen. I whip my wand out from the pocket of my robes as the ghostly creature halts before Hermione. As it stills, I can see that it's a stag, seemingly spun out of silver light, illuminating the pots and pans with its eerie glow.

It speaks with the voice of Harry Potter:

"_It's good to know you're all right. Ron and I are making progress on the locket, but the snake got away in the confusion. We've talked it over, and we think it's a good idea you're the one keeping Riddle contained. It would have been a risk to keep him at the Burrow. But be careful, Hermione. Never forget what he's capable of. We miss you too."_

And the spectral stag dissolves. "Contained?" My left hand clenches involuntarily. "Is _that _what you're doing, Hermione Granger?_ Containing _me?" The pain of fresh betrayal rips through me. It was just as it was when I first met her_. Lies disguised as kindness, all for show, making sure I went calmly to my fate. And I had believed her._ _I could still kill her… _my blood begins to pump at the thought, and red begins to haze across my vision. The rage of my memories returns with a vengeance_. "Is it?"_

**L.V.H.G**

My first warnings are the eggs. They all burst into flames on the bench-top and then cinders are all that's left of our breakfast. He's looming over me, wand at my throat. I don't even have time to pick mine off the table. "N-no… I… just… I d-d-didn't want to w-worry them. I lied to Harry, n-not _you_."

"_Tell the truth!"_ His right hand twists through my hair painfully and pulls me to my feet. "I let you live because you helped me when I most needed it. Now I discover that help was a mere ruse to gain my trust?" I would have healed anyone. I would have held anyone. I would have brought anyone food. It was simple human decency. But Voldemort doesn't understand that, I realise. He thought it meant I was on his side, that I had abandoned my friends. His face is wild, unhinged, and I know that if I don't say something he will kill me.

I cast my mind quickly over what he's mentioned – the visions he's had. "I'm not your father. I'm not Wormtail. I don't want to leave you. I'm _not_ going to leave you." The steel grip in my hair trembles and then releases and I know I've said the right thing. _Even if it's a lie. _Guilt curdles in my stomach. And in those red, red eyes I see _Voldemort_. As no one else had ever, perhaps, seen Voldemort. As a damaged thing in a cage of loneliness, with little but anger to keep him sane; a brilliant wizard who effortlessly breaks the boundaries of what is magically possible but who in the muggle world would have ended up either in a prison or an asylum.

His voice is high and strained: "I remembered murdering my father… how right it felt… how deserved… It's not the death… but the_ pain_ I can't bear – _do you understand?"_

Wordlessly, I shake my head.

"He abandoned me. They_ all_ did!" A frenzied shriek. "And that cowardly _rat_… he came to me out of fear, not loyalty. He would have left me to_ die_ if he'd had the chance." His spittle flecks my face and he grabs my wrist, I instinctually try to wrangle it away from him, but he hangs on, his nails digging into me. "But _you_, Hermione…_ you'll_ stay…" He drops my wrist and his long fingers dive through my hair, framing my face, gently forcing me to look up at him. "You say you won't betray me? What makes you so different from them?"

_Nothing. _His face is so close to mine I can feel his breath on my cheeks and see the lattice of blue veins that gives his bleached skin its little colour, "I gave you my word." I say simply, my heart sinking. _For the greater good_, a voice which sounds like Professor Dumbledore's echoes in my mind, but my heart breaks for Tom Marvolo Riddle.

**L.V.H.G**

_Next chapter: Snatchers in Little Hangleton and Lord Voldemort learns his chosen name!_


	6. You Know Who

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The sixth chapter of the rewrite. Another big chunk of _Deathly Hallows_ is in this chapter, again necessary for the story – for Voldemort's character development, to be precise. I always liked rereading this particular bit in the book, though, so hopefully all of you won't mind. To respond to a particular anonymous review, no I have _not_ run out of ideas – it's just that I have _so many_ ideas it takes a while to regiment them all into a chapter. And this is probably the craziest chapter yet, to be honest. Also, I'm very sorry, but I still haven't managed to get my usb stick off my father. Soon, I promise! Also, to answer a question several readers had about Harry sending his patronus - he didn't know that Voldemort had his wand back and assumed, unfortunately, that Hermione had him locked up somewhere. ^_^ Thank you, as always, to all those who left a review! *kiss kiss*

**Chapter Six: You Know Who**

Our boiled eggs are pretty much what Harry, Ron and I need Voldemort's Horcruxes to be: destroyed beyond magical repair. And since I hadn't had time in the chaos of the wedding to pack any food (I had been planning to fill the three of us a large bag of left-overs to take with us), I now find myself walking down to Little Hangleton to buy some supplies for myself and Voldemort. I have to admit, my motives aren't entirely utilitarian. I want to get away from Voldemort for a while – it's hard to think clearly with those carbuncle eyes watching me constantly in the musty darkness of the old house. I'm a bit surprised he agreed I should go, but he probably regards this as some kind of test – I don't think he understands just how powerful a vow he had me make.

It's a beautiful morning. With the sun warm on my skin and bees buzzing from wildflower to wildflower in the hedgerows, it would be easy to forget everything I've gone through and behave as though it were a normal summer holiday. But Voldemort is waiting for me back at the Riddles' house. I glance back at it and it seems to loom malevolently from the top of the hill, abandoned to its decay.

I'm half-way down the hill by the time I realise that openly going into the village without Polyjuice Potion could be a very silly idea. But… it's a quiet muggle village going about its business. If there had been any wizards living here after the deaths of the Gaunt family, Voldemort probably wouldn't have taken the risk of staying here in the year of the Triwizard Cup. Besides, I'm just Harry Potter's plain, muggle-born friend. I'm not the one the Death Eaters are looking out for – Ron's recognisable wizarding family are in much more danger than I am.

Coming closer to the village, I can see the village church in more detail. Against the blue sky and old stone, the dark leaves of a great yew tree cast the attendant graveyard into shade. It's a charming church and I wonder how old the building is. "Mornin' – nice day for a walk!" I startle at the voice. An old muggle man in a faded fishing hat is crouching down to clean a gravestone.

"Oh, g-good morning!" I call back, meandering across the soft grass. Something catches my foot unexpectedly and I almost fall. Bending down, I see the culprit: a very frayed and weathered length of rope lies coiled like the pale skeleton of a snake in the long grass. I lift my gaze to the headstone beside me:

_THOMAS RIDDLE – 1880-1943_

_MARY RIDDLE – 1883-1943_

_TOM RIDDLE – 1905-1943_

The stone is filthy – it appears that nobody's given it a thorough clean since 1943. The names are clearly visible though, as someone has thoughtfully scraped off much of the lichen off the middle of the headstone. My eyes go to the rope again and I gasp: _that's where Pettigrew tied Harry after he killed Cedric Diggory!_ I'm standing at the site of Voldemort's rebirth and Cedric's murder. Behind me, I can hear the old man whistling 'Blow the Wind Southerly' as he scrubs. It was my friend who rubbed away the lichen – the only time Voldemort ever cleaned his father's headstone was when he tied a struggling Harry to it.

I look around, slightly panicked, trying to imagine the gruesome scene Harry described. But there's no mist, no great black cauldron, no circle of masked Death Eaters, no gibbous moon… only a simple country graveyard in dappled sunlight. Voldemort's words come to me as I return my gaze at the stone:_I remembered murdering my father… how right it felt… how deserved… It's not the death… but the__ pain__ I can't bear – __do you understand?_

I didn't understand what he'd meant by that – but he'd said it like a threat, asking me if I understood the danger I was in. _What did he mean?_ Last night he'd been driven to hysteria by the memories he'd been given back (I need to research _that_ too), but it was more complicated than that, wasn't it? _How right it felt… how deserved… It's not the death, but the pain I can't bear… I don't want to be Tom Riddle… I want to be someone else…_

He didn't regret the fact that he'd killed his family. He'd said they'd deserved it. I'd made the naïve assumption that it had been the memory of his _actions_ that had undone him last night – but I'd been wrong. Tom Riddle was –_ is_ – psychopathic. I need to have that clear in my mind if I'm going to deal with him on a regular basis. So his spectacular reaction last night (well, early this morning) must have been solely in response to memories of his _own_ pain. _I don't want to be Tom Riddle, _he'd said. So, years ago, he became Lord Voldemort and, perceiving pain as weakness, he must have tried to bury all of Tom Riddle's pain beneath the surface of his chosen persona. It partly answered the question I'd been asking myself back at the Burrow – why would any sixteen year-old want to make a Horcrux?

Horcruxes take away your humanity. A large part of being human was suffering. Riddle had probably thought he could rip away the pain along with his soul. The more he distanced himself from humanity, the better off he probably thought he would be. Again, the tale of _The Warlock with the Hairy Heart _comes to mind. But although the theory makes sense, it's obvious the results hadn't worked out that way. Tom Riddle had instead made his soul and his mind highly unstable; like the proverbial warlock, he'd rendered himself sub-human rather than super-human – and the Dark Arts had taken care of the rest. He'd taken away his ability to be happy, not his ability to suffer. And Voldemort must have thought, each time, that it hadn't been enough, that another Horcrux was needed in order to be free of humanity, until he no longer even _looked _human.

_Was this why Professor Dumbledore gave me the book? _It must have been. None of the other stories bear any relevance to Voldemort at all. The maiden in the story ends up with her heart ripped out. The professor gave the book _'to Hermione Jean Granger… in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive'_. Was it a warning not to pity the Dark Lord? Meant to galvanise us to destroy his Horcruxes? Not that we needed any extra incentive! Or was it the very opposite – I pitied the unknowing warlock and the tragic maiden just as I recoiled from the dark magic the tale evoked. I don't know. _Why did Dumbledore always have to be so cryptic?_

_It's not the death… but the__ pain__ I can't bear – __do you understand?_ In a very round-about and very threatening way, I finally realise, the Dark Lord had been asking me not to hurt him.

I leave the Riddles' grave, trying to focus on my errand. I don't want to dwell on how all of this makes me feel.

**L.V.H.G**

I decided to let Hermione go and buy food for us. If she doesn't come back, I will find her and kill her. Sitting in Hermione's chair, I examine the books with which she has laden the kitchen table. She has bookmarked, along with _The Magic of the Mind, _two books about magical theory. One thing in the introduction to the first book catches my eye: _'It is generally agreed that magical power increases with age. This is not simply a question of magical experience. As wizards and witches mature, their magical capabilities mature with them. Some scholars insist that the magical faculties are not fully developed until around the age of fifty…' _But the author is adamant that wandless magic is something young, hormonal wizards and witches do accidentally before progressing to magic with a wand – just as Hermione had explained to me earlier.

The other book informs me that those with especially potent magic can direct it without a wand, but that this is very rare ability and almost unheard of in modern times. The thought of possessing such an uncommon gift pleases me immensely. _But if you gain power with age, would it not make sense that you would gradually become better at wandless magic as you grow older…? _ Perhaps using one's wand to perform spells is so ingrained by the time most wizards _do_ reach the age of being able to perform wand-less magic (or even – Hermione's especial fear – magic without spells) they don't even consider the possibility. Possibly, because I lost my memory when my magic had reached its maturity – and considering the fact that my skills, according to Hermione, were abnormally advanced even as a child – I am able to do perform magic in ways which I could not had I not been afflicted with amnesia. A poor comfort, but at least it's _something_.

I pick up _The Fundamentals of Transfiguration _by Hesper Gamp. There is nothing in the book which explains what could have caused my body to become what it is. The transformations the book mentions are nothing like the meld of man and serpent I possess. There are, apparently, wizards who could transform into an actual snake and resulting cases where they occasionally become stuck in that form, but that was because they _became_ the animal. Not because they got caught somewhere in between. Besides, whatever happened to me could only have been _deliberate_. I am supposed to be an incredibly talented wizard – it would not have been an accident that I ended up this way.

Gamp also details magicians who could alter their appearance at will, warping their bodies as they set fit… but… if I'd possessed that kind of ability I would never have been stuck in… in the _other_ form… I close the book and make my way up the filthy stairs to the bedroom I've claimed as my own for the length of our stay. The room is in darkness, the curtains drawn. I have not bothered to open them when I can see my way perfectly.

Feeling lonely, I call to Nagini across the distance between our minds. _Nagini, do you know why I do not look like other humans do? _Ifind myself staring into the full-length mirror beside what was probably once Mrs Riddle's dressing table. _My grandmother's dressing table._

…_You are not human, my lord. You are much more than a human. _She hisses gently within my mind, but I find I cannot take comfort from her thoughts.

I stare at myself – the first time I have really confronted my reflection since that initial, desperate realisation. _Did I cast a spell to make myself this way?_

She pauses reflectively as I feel her smooth belly sliding along cool stone, chasing mammalian scents. _I do not know, master. From what you have shared with me, you seemed to grow into it, shedding your human flesh like an old skin grown loose and uncomfortable. _

I raise a hand to my face, searching for traces of the features I'd once had. I hold my father's face before me in my mind, like the hateful mirror he'd been in my vision. Yes, _there_ are the high cheekbones and the jawline is similar… and… and… something in the length of my face, maybe? Now we are alike in structure alone, everything which overlays that bone framework is very different. _Master? _Nagini lingers in my mind, concerned. _Master?_

But I do not answer her, breaking our connection. My lurid eyes gaze back at me, set into an etiolated, macilent face. Perhaps it has a certain… _sculptural_ magnificence all its own? I reach for the glass and long, gracile fingers stretch out toward me. Familiarising myself with every detail in a way I have not been capable of until this moment – the blue veins, feline pupils, milky, semi-translucent skin – I accept it all through careful examination.

Now there is no horror left, no ophidian mystique. It is _my_ face: nothing more, nor less. It is merely flesh. It is powerless.

**L.V.H.G**

There are children playing tag on the main street, shouting and laughing outside the grocery shop. The small, dark-haired woman who minds the counter gazes at me as I pick up a wire shopping basket and begin to fill it with food. Her watery eyes follow me around the store as I grab bread, fresh vegetables, and lots of things in tins. I know it's her job to watch her customers, but I can't help but feel she's staring at me when my back is turned. _She's a muggle, _I tell myself, _and I'm the only one in the shop. This is paranoia! _Yet I can't help but feel unsettled.

Putting my basket on the counter, my fears are allayed. The lady – her long hair pulled into a tight bun reminds me of Professor McGonagall – gives me an unexpected smile and totals up my purchases. After paying her, I'm glad to put the shop behind me. I walk slowly up the hill, my plastic shopping bags banging against my legs. I don't apparate up to the house, putting more time between me and the moment when I have to see Voldemort again. The beginnings of a nasty headache stir – probably from hunger and dehydration.

I put the groceries down on the lawn of the Riddles' house and – making sure no one is watching – recast the protective enchantments and muggle-repelling charm. I know it's silly. Last night's spells are still in effect. But I feel happier afterward. If anyone had followed me from Little Hangleton, they would have seen a girl walk up the hill, around the back of the estate, and then disappear behind Frank Bryce's tumbledown cottage. If they checked inside the house, it would appear empty. To be honest, I'd be more comfortable if I'd learnt how to master the really advanced warding spells Professor Lupin and Bill Weasley used on the Burrow, but there hadn't been time to ask. I don't want to ask Voldemort – with the blinding powerful magic he seems to casually command, he'd probably cause the house to disappear entirely. I'm… somewhat jealous, actually. But the feeling dissolves almost immediately when I dwell on the fact that he has nothing else.

I pick up the groceries again and let myself in the kitchen door – hidden under a heavy ivy curtain, it's invisible from the outside, making it the perfect door for our use. I've hexed the front door so that no one should be able to get in unless they go so far as to bash it down. I'd left Voldemort reading in the kitchen (all the books relating directly to him or dark magic are safely with me in my beaded bag), but he's not here now. My books are neatly stacked to one side of the table.

I put the groceries on the kitchen bench and transfigure some broken crockery into glasses and plates. Then I make us both big salad sandwiches. It's incredibly surreal – _I'm making Lord Voldemort a sandwich. _Hopefully he won't mind tinned beetroot.

Climbing the creaky stairs with our lunch floating ahead of me I can see a warm light flickering in the room just beyond the landing. I take a deep breath, wanting to steady myself before seeing him again, but all I do is fill my nostrils with dust – making me sneeze and almost cause the plates to fall.

"_Hermione?" _I don't think I'll ever get used to that voice saying my name; cold like an icy mountain stream and weirdly high-pitched, a sound made for vicious threats and terrible ultimatums, a sound to inspire fear.

But I push the door open and face my fear._ Gryffindor_, I remind myself, _Gryffindor…_"Yes, it's me," I reply.

To my surprise, he hasn't cleaned up this room, but left it to its cobwebs, peeling wallpaper and mouldy rug, making me hesitant to set the food down on the floor. The fire, blazing with a singular intensity, makes my skin feel uncomfortably warm. Voldemort is sitting on the one piece of intact furniture, a tattered and deeply scarred armchair facing the fireplace. "I've made us sandwiches," I explain tentatively. "It's very hot in here with that fire going. Do you really think it's necessary?"

I'm standing beside the chair now and he looks up at me distractedly, as if I'd just interrupted some grim thought. "I suppose it's not," he concedes, "but the heat is very pleasant – this house is so cold."

The house is, if anything, overly warm and airless in the middle of summer. Right now I would love to open a window and let in the breeze. I begin to wonder if Voldemort is cold-blooded in more than just the figurative sense. I pass him his plate and tall glass of water, needing a sip of my own to fight off dizziness. I sit down on the floor, banishing the dust, and balance my plate in my lap, not touching my own lunch even though I'm hungry.

He stares at the sandwich resting on his knees, placing his glass carefully on the floorboards. I watch, mesmerised, as he gathers the sandwich up in his white, spindly fingers and bites down. Voldemort winces and puts it back on his plate, wiping beetroot juice from his mouth. "Just as repulsive as the cake you gave me," I think I can almost detect disappointment in his tone.

I frown down at my own lunch and take a bite. It tastes fine – so did the wedding cake. Yet Voldemort picks up his sandwich again and perseveres. "It tastes alright to me," I say carefully. "You… you don't have to eat it, you know."

He shakes his head, "Do I look like I can afford not to eat?"

"You could transfigure it into something you like more…" I suggest. Voldemort gives the sandwich a thoughtful look and taps his wand-tip against the brown, wholemeal bread. The bread and fillings begin to liquefy, spreading out to the edges of the plate and turning a silvery white. It now looks very much like a plateful of liquid mercury. "_That's _your favourite food?" the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

"Apparently," he leans down and carefully sniffs the silver goo. "It _smells_ good, but then so did the sandwich." He dips a finger into it and silvery strands cling to the substance like mozzarella cheese as he draws his hand away. Warily, he sticks out his tongue to lick the thick, glistening liquid off his finger. "…Blood," he announces finally, "venom and blood…"

Only one magical creature has silver blood. "Your favourite food is _unicorn blood_?" That is just sick. I remember when Hagrid showed us a unicorn foal. It had been so shyly beautiful… Unicorn blood and snake venom – it was horrifyingly symbolic. The Dark Lord's favourite dish was a blend of innocence and poison.

"It's not exactly pleasant, but it's definitely more appetising than anything else I've had occasion to taste. _Familiar_… I…" he stops and suddenly stares at the blood as though it has betrayed him. He sets the plate down beside his glass of water, his fingers shaking. Leaping out of the chair, Voldemort paces around the room, glaring fitfully at his surroundings. Power seems to crackle about him, charging the air with magic. The crimson eyes are wild and unseeing – _mad._

I know that I have to distract him, otherwise something terrible will happen. "Y-you never told me how you got your wand back…?" My voice comes out with a squeak.

Lord Voldemort slowly turns to look at me. I don't know whether his sudden calm is real or artificial – it might be the serenity before the final fit of psychotic rage. But as he almost gingerly lowers himself back into the armchair I realise my tactic must have worked, at least a little. He picks up the water, splashing a few drops onto his clothes as his nervous fingers tremble. "It was… simple…in the end…" his words are carefully toneless, "I discovered the ability to possess Nagini and, using her, I stole the wand from Alastor Moody's room."

"But I put barriers around the field… she couldn't get out!" even in these circumstances, I can't help the surge of hot indignation that comes with being outsmarted. We should have remembered that he can possess creatures, even without a wand.

"True, _she_ couldn't." He takes a sip of water – hands steady – and smiles grimly at the thought and I find myself smiling too.

**L.V.H.G**

The wind attacks the old house – whistling past unsecured boards and gaps in the roof tiles. The air is filled with flapping, banging and creaking; our tumble-down manor house being tortured by the elements. It's impossible to sleep. I've resolved that, if I survive all this, I'm never going to live in an exposed house on top of a hill. I wonder if Voldemort is awake. We both went to bed hours ago.

I turn over and try to make myself comfortable, pulling the cover over my head to block the noise of the house and the summer storm. Closing my eyes, I visualise chapter one of _Hogwarts: a History _and try to mentally recite it – thinking that if I focus on something I'll fall asleep faster.

The whistling is as clear as ever, screaming gusts rattling through the house. Wait… _screaming_? My whole body tenses as I listen furiously, trying to separate a human voice from the screeching gale. It's hard to tell, but I think… I think there might be someone out there, someone in pain.

I grab my red Gryffindor dressing-gown from the bottom of the bed and the lion crest in the pocket gives me courage. Putting my feet into my slippers, I knot the dressing-gown tight and snatch my wand from the beside-table. Then it occurs to me: what if it's Lord Voldemort? What if he's torturing a muggle? _Oh no…_

I run down the dusty hall, the floor creaking harshly under my racing feet and throw open the door to Voldemort's room, sure I'll find it empty.

But I'm wrong. Whatever is going on outside, the Dark Lord has nothing to do with it because he – unlike me – is asleep. Voldemort lies, his long limbs splayed out across the chintzy sheets, ruby eyes hidden in sleep. He looks so strange without robes, the pale patterned sheets just covering his hips. All that _white – _brilliant white, like chalk. I'd always seen him encased by black robes, black rooms, black deeds… but here he looks strangely innocent. His shoulders are narrow, his body waif-like, the blue veins running down his neck illuminated by my bright wand-light. The face is as disturbing as ever, but not so alien when beheld with the rest of him – less mask-like, more human, almost… fragile. I move to wake him.

**L.V.H.G**

…_The night was wet and windy. Two children dressed as pumpkins waddled across the village square; the windows decorated with paper spiders, all the tawdry muggle trappings of a world in which they did not believe…_

_And, amongst all this make-believe, I glided along with that sense of purpose, power and _rightness_ in me that I always knew on these occasions. Not anger, that was for weaker souls than I. It was triumph singing in my veins, not wrath – how I had waited for this, had hoped for it..._

"_Nice costume, mister!" One of the small boys ran over to me, a stick lantern bobbing in his hand, seemingly impressed by my cloak. But his smile faltered as he came close enough to see beneath the hood of that cloak, his painted face suddenly clouded with fear. I smiled, watching as the boy turned and ran. Beneath my robe I fingered the handle of my wand. One simple movement and the child would never reach his mother. But it was unnecessary, quite unnecessary… _

_I moved down a new and darker street, away from the lights of the square, my destination at last in sight, the Fidelius Charm broken, though they did not know it yet. I made less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as I drew level to the dark hedge and stared over it._

_They had not drawn the curtains, I saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room, the tall black-haired man in his glasses making puffs of coloured smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small, black-haired boy in his blue pyjamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his tiny fists. A door opened and the mother entered, saying words I could not hear, her long, dark red hair falling over her face. Then the father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down on the sofa and stretched, yawning._

_The gate creaked a little as I pushed it open, but James Potter did not hear. I pulled my wand out from beneath my cloak and pointed it at the door, causing it to burst open. I was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy; the man had not even picked his wand off the sofa… "Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off-"_

_Hold me off? Hold me off, without a wand in his hand…! I laughed before casting the curse… "_AvadaKedavra!_"_

_The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glare like lightning rods and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings had been cut._

_I could hear screaming on the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible she, at least, had nothing to fear… I climbed the stairs, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in. She had no wand upon her either. How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for a moment! _

_I forced the door open, casting aside the chair and boxes piled against it with a lazy flick of my wand. And there she stood, her child in her arms. At the sight of me she dropped her son into the cot behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if by shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead_

_"Not Harry, please, not Harry!"_

"_Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…" I gave her the chance, even though such a foolish woman did not deserve my clemency. But I had given my word._

"_Not Harry, please no! Take me, kill me instead…!" _

"_This is my last warning." _

"_Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy…I'll do anything…!"_

"_Stand aside!"_ _I could have forced her away from the cot, but she was insensible and it seemed more prudent to finish them all… Green light flashed around the room and she dropped just like her husband. The child had not cried in all this time: he stood in his cot looking up at the intruder's face with a kind of bright interest, perhaps thinking it was his father under the cloak, making more pretty lights… and his mother would pop up again at any moment, laughing –_

_I pointed my wand very carefully at the boy's face: I wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger… The child began to cry: it had seen I was not James. I did not like it crying, I had never been able to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage –_

"Avada Kedavra!_"_

_And then I broke: I was nothing – nothing but pain and terror and, as the trapped child was screaming in the rubble of the ruined house. I saw my wand lying in the dust, but I had no hands to reach for it. It was pain beyond pain – I too screamed; a helpless, soundless wail. If I had no body, why did my head hurt so badly? If I was dead, why was the pain so unbearable? Didn't pain cease with death, didn't it go…?_

"Wake up!"_ someone called from the distance and I realised I had to hide myself – not here – far, far away... somewhere safe…_

"Come on, wake _up_!" _Why were the aurors telling me to wake up? Was this a dream? Would I awaken to discover Harry Potter still at Godric's Hollow with his parents? Was it all just a bizarre nightmare bred from my fear of the prophecy…?_

"You have to wake up!" _The voice was familiar, a strict feminine sound dinning in my ears. What woman would dare speak to me in such a tone? I–_

My eyes snap open, my whole body rigid with the memory of the pain, my mind reeling with it. A girl is leaning over me, her dark, bushy hair falling across her face like Lily Potter's. Her lovely eyes are wide with shock and I realise that I'm lying here naked except for a thin sheet pooling around my waist. I wrench the sheet upward and fumble under the pillow for my wand.

"Something's going on outside," Hermione squeaks, "I can hear screaming!"

I blink up at her, attempting to separate dream from reality, and ignoring the creeping feeling that I should wake up any second. I imagine a cloaked figure opening the garden gate behind the abandoned caretaker's cottage... "Screaming?" I ask carefully.

"At first I thought it was just the storm, but something's _happening _out there…!" Hermione is wearing a red fluffy dressing-gown with a gold lion embroidered on the front pocket.

"Well, perhaps you ought to wait _outside_ whilst I robe myself…?" I say pointedly.

"Oh… yes… um… _yes_!" she flushes and races out of the room, slamming the door. And, yes, I _can_ hear something above the din of the elements, a hoarse cry on the wind, half obscured by the rattling of the house...

**L.V.H.G**

Outside, the sounds are clearer. The air crackles with lightning and I have to face the weird sensation that I feel safer out here knowing that right behind me is the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries. We race together across the darkness of the lawn toward the hedge which encircles the gardens of the Riddle's house – the limit of my protection charms.

Beyond the hedge, down the hill, I can see the source of the screaming. Someone – the screams sounded like those of a woman – is running, stumbling across the field below us, crying for help. Just behind her are a crowd of dark robed figures, moving like a pack of wolves, firing off curses lazily. _They're playing with her, _I realise. "We have to do something!" I whisper.

But it isn't Harry or Ron beside me. Voldemort's eyes are illuminated in brilliant scarlet as lightning sears across the sky. His face is blank. "Why?"

"She's in pain – we have to _stop_ them!" to anyone else, it would be a simple equation, but he stares at me non-comprehendingly.

"It is none of our concern. They have no involvement with us." his voice is utterly detached, its lilting chill horrifies me.

"We_ have _to! Please… _please!_ Who knows what they're going to do to her?" Voldemort's eyes are on the horrible spectacle, then he turns back to me, his pale face thoughtful.

"Very well," he murmurs and disappears with a _crack_. Lord Voldemort appears in the field between the woman and her hunters, moving like the most graceful of dancers, his black robes swirling around him as the men draw back with horrified cries. In a second, the dark figures have turned from predators to prey, their screams just as frantic as the woman's. Green light flashes in a wide arc – again, again, _again_ – until there are only two figures visible in the field, Voldemort and the woman.

He bends down and extends a hand to her, his tall form clearly visible in the darkness. _Crack! _I yelp as the two appear beside me and I realise the woman holding Voldemort's hand is the lady from the grocery shop. Her dark hair is wild, her are eyes wide and tear-stained, and she trembles in terror as he lets her hand drop. "I… I… thank y-y-you!" she stares up at Voldemort, who gives her a polite, but cold, nod in return. "T-they were going to… g-g-going to…"

"It's okay," I tell her, "he won't hurt you."

"I-I… I know he won't!" she snatches Voldemort's spider-like hand and shakes it furiously, "Young man, I don't know how to thank you! You saved my life! I owe you a lift debt!" _Young man? _"And you! You're Hermione Granger, aren't you? I thought it was you I saw! Harry Potter's girlfriend?"

"Um… only if you read _Witch Weekly_." This makes _no _sense.

"I'm Mary – m-m-Mary Cattermole. Thank you so much." I cast Voldemort a bewildered glance. He gives me a small smirk and his features seem to flicker oddly. A tall boy about my age stands there, pale skin and neat black hair – the only things which don't change are the slit crimson eyes. But as soon as I see it, the illusion vanishes and Voldemort is standing there silently watching me.

"W-why don't we go inside?" I suggest shakily, "You'll feel much better after some tea."

I lead her though the kitchen door, behind the mass of ivy, as Voldemort brings up the rear, his eyes glowing like warm embers.

**L.V.H.G**

The woman – Mrs Cattermole – gulps down her tea. "Are you two on the run from the Ministry together? I didn't think many people knew about what going to happen – although Reg and I told those we could." She runs a hand nervously through her long hair and her face looks extremely worn in the candlelight. She shivers.

"Yes," Hermione nods; pouring her another cup (we managed to find the remains of a china tea-set in a kitchen cupboard).

"I still can't believe it's happening, you know. If you hadn't rescued me from the snatchers, I probably would have gotten the kiss…" she wipes her eyes. "When they asked all the muggle-borns to sign a register, they said it was for our protection! Because we might be targeted… how were we supposed to know what would happen? But Reg – my husband – works for the Ministry. He's… he's trying to get me a license as a half-blood. We thought it would be best if the kids and I stayed with my muggle relatives – they run the grocery business here in Little Hangleton… we thought it would be safe… looks like we were wrong… are… are you both muggle-born?" She looks curiously at me, but I feel no desire to answer her, to stir up once again the hatred I feel for my parents.

"No, only me," Hermione answers her, "Tom's a half-blood."

"I think it's really romantic, what you're doing for Hermione," Mrs Cattermole smiles weakly at me. "But… and, please don't be offended, but what happened to your eyes?" _Romantic?_ What a ridiculous woman.

Hermione, I can't help but notice, has turned a rather attractive shade of pink. I realise I'm beginning to relish her blushes. "Oh, Tom g-got hit by a nasty hex..." She stutters nervously; the lie could not be more obvious.

But the Cattermole woman seems to swallow it. She really is ludicrously gullible. Perhaps casting a spell on her to mask my appearance in her eyes was unnecessary? Her insipid blue eyes are on me again. "I'm so sorry… but thank you again for saving me. You know, for a second, I thought it was You-Know-Who come to finish me off!"

"Really?" Hermione coughs nervously into her tea.

"You-Know-Who?" I inquire, curious at the fear in her voice.

"I know, isn't it _ridiculous_? Thinking _you _were He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"

Hermione interjects, quickly changing the subject. I notice the way she glances nervously in my direction, "Yes – anyway – Mrs Cattermole, what were you planning to-"

"-Forgive me for interrupting, but who _is_ this He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" I say calmly, cutting Hermione off with smooth finality.

Mary Cattermole's mouth falls open, "What do you mean, who is _he_?"

A strained smile fixes Hermione Granger's lips, "The curse… it… it affected Tom's memory… I was going to take him to St Mungo's but that's impossible now…"

"Oh…" _This woman has to be the most gullible woman in the world. _Not only are Hermione's lies painfully obvious, but she's told me something even more important – she doesn't want Mrs Cattermole to explain to me who this 'You-Know-Who' is.

"So," my voice is effortlessly casual, "you know… who?"

Mrs Cattermole leans forward, her voice barely above a whisper, her expression beyond shocked. "We can't speak his name…!" she throws a desperate glance at Hermione, "_tell_ him!"

"Well, Hermione?" I fix my gaze affectionately on my companion, finding it impossible to keep the corners of my mouth from twitching upwards.

"Fear of a name..." Hermione says _very_ slowly "only increases fear of the thing itself. That's what Professor Dumbledore always said. His _name_…" the hazel eyes meet my gaze in nervous challenge, "…is Lord Voldemort."

The name shivers delightfully up my spine and I know – _I know_ – that it is _my_ name. Not Tom Marvolo Riddle, not anything else, but _Lord Voldemort_. An overwhelming sense of _rightness_ surges through me. Rightness at the way the three syllables resonate through me, rightness at the fear in the faces of the two women.

A resounding bang startles all three of us. An unnaturally loud, dangerous voice echoes through the house, _"Come out of the house with your hands up! We know you're in there and we don't care who we curse!"_ I grip my wand tightly, feeling myself on the brink of that strange euphoria I felt when killing the Potters and the men who were chasing Mrs Cattermole.

"They got through my wards!" Hermione gasps. She jumps up and begins to fling all the food into her beaded bag. "I hexed the front door, but that won't hold them off for long!" _Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off- _"Mary, can you can apparate?"

"I… _I_ _can't!"_

"You have to! _Concentrate!_"

"I..."

"You can do it - focus!"

The loud, gruff voice comes again, _"This is your final warning!"_ Mrs Cattermole disappears with a _crack_, leaving Hermione and myself standing alone in the kitchen. Hermione and I will give the intruders a much better show than James and Lily Potter -_ much_ better.

Green sparks are buzzing from my wand and I treat Hermione a mirthless smile. "Wait here," I hiss in excited anticipation, listening to the murmur of at least a dozen voices getting closer and closer outside; the heavy pounding at the front door ringing in my ears.

"No," the girl states calmly, her face upturned, her pretty mouth determined. "I won't let you kill them."

"You–" _She dares!_

Hermione takes my unresisting right hand, squeezing the bones tightly, and the world twists up upon itself again, turning everything to darkness.

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Voldemort and Hermione continue their journey and Voldemort finds out about Horcruxes…_


	7. The Dementor by the Sea

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The seventh chapter of the rewrite. I'm_ so_ sorry for how late this chapter is! I was originally going to write about Horcruxes and I'd written half a chapter when I realised that several other things needed to come first. So, I'm afraid it's a rain-check on the Horcruxes and this chapter focuses on the relationship between Voldemort and Hermione instead. This time the chapter features a scene from _The Half-Blood Prince. _

**Chapter Seven: The Dementor by the Sea**

The sky is clear here – far above me I can discern the long strand of the Milky Way winding amongst the stars. We are in a slight clearing, surrounded by tall trees and the pattering and rustling of a forest at night. I look over: Hermione is spread supine in the long grass, just an arm-span away. Sitting up, a wave of dizziness washes over me, and I clutch my wand tightly as I crawl over to her. I put a hand to her face, "Hermione?" The girl's eyes open and our gazes lock. She too grips her wand, neither of us quite trusting the other. I am confident, however, that if it comes to a fight she will lose. "Why did you stop me?" As I ask, I notice that there isn't as much force in my question as I thought there would be. Landing on my back in the damp grass, in the midst of unknown woodland, seems to have robbed me of much of my bloodlust. It's as if my mental landscape is constantly changing along with my physical reality, leaving me struggling to make sense of my thoughts. I hate this feeling.

Hermione's lips purse in a familiar frown: "Why did you_ let_ me stop you?"

Her hand had latched on to mine like a vice. _I won't let you kill them._ "You surprised me. I thought you would regard ridding ourselves of those intruders equivalent to helping Mary Cattermole."

She sits up, self-consciously running her fingers through her bushy hair. "I… I don't think anyone should have to die like that."

"But you said–?"

"I didn't think you'd just… just _kill_ them!"

I stand up and brush away the twigs and leaves clinging to my clothes. The soft grass feels nice brushing against my toes. In truth, I hadn't considered doing anything else. I had wanted to see if killing felt as exhilarating – as _wonderful_ – as it had in my dream. If anything, it had been even better – so much so that I had thrilled at the opportunity to try it again. And here was Hermione telling me it was wrong when she had been the one who persuaded me to save Mrs Cattermole in the first place, when I had been quite content not to intervene. "I don't follow."

Picking herself up, Hermione inhales – as if drawing strength from the night air. "Avada Kedavra is the _worst _of the three Unforgivable Curses. The use of the curse on a human being will, at best, get you a life sentence in Azkaban Prison. It's _forbidden_ by wizard law!"

I let out a bitter laugh. "Hermione… I'm _already_ a multiple murderer on the run from the Ministry of Magic. As you yourself explained, I've killed so many people that a few more won't make a difference to any sentence I might receive should I have the misfortune to be caught."

"That doesn't change the fact that it's _wrong_! They were people! With hopes and dreams and… and _families_! You can't just _end_ that! You can't just _end _a _human being_!" I watch in fascination as her thick curls swing and her eyes flash with conviction.

_Yes, you can._ The deaths of the Potters swim across my mind's eye – a family. The Riddles: another… _family_. Yet I felt nothing – I _feel _nothing. There are no words I can give Hermione; I can no more understand her position than she seems to be able to accept mine. Yet I do not wish to disagree with her. Her whole body seems to be alive with crackling purpose. I want to bend down, put my nose in her hair, and see if I breathe in sparks. "Nagini tells me I am not… human... any longer. Perhaps that is why I cannot understand your difficulty?"

Her mouth twists up into a tightly despairing rictus – a desperate_ parody_ of a grin beneath sadly glistening eyes. "No… y-you're h-human alright..." a little hiccup of a half-sob. "No matter what you've done to yourself to try and prove otherwise…"

"So you know?" I ask quietly, leaning over her "You know what caused…" I gesture to my face "…this?"

She shakes her head nervously, lowering her eyelids. "No one r-really knows. But you always claimed to have pushed the boundaries of magic further than anyone else. But even_ you_ couldn't exorcise all of what makes you human." And, trembling, she steps forward.

"And what is _that_?"

Her smile is just as bitter as mine. "Fear," she explains simply, staring up into my eyes as if she knows all there is to know about my soul. "It's why you need to make everyone afraid of you. And you – y-your greatest fear is death! That's why you enjoy killing people, isn't it?"

_Is that my greatest fear? Is it why I enjoyed first the thrill of anticipation, and then the brutal magic of murder? _I don't know. I had certainly been afraid when I was trapped in that stinking garage. _Anyone would have been!_ Locking people up and telling them they're going to die_ has_ that effect! It didn't mean I had some sort of… pathological problem with dying… _did it?_

…_Did it? Am I crazy? _All of my initial fears about my amnesia slam back into me with an almost physical force…

…_It was an outing to the seaside. We went once annually – it was paid for by a rich old woman, Lady Something-Or-Other, who thought it would be nice for poor orphans to see the sea. Personally, I felt her money would be more profitably spent on better school books, but I believe I was alone in that opinion. We would all be squeezed into a large green bus and driven to the coast, a different place each time to keep things interesting._

_The only thing I really liked about the sea was its power; the way the tall waves would rise - higher and higher - before crashing downward. And always another wave right behind to take its place. The sea made me think of history, all those kings and queens following right after each other. Mostly, I would just sit and watch the surf, whilst others paddled, fought with driftwood, collected shells, or built sandcastles. We were not allowed to swim, as none of us knew how. _

_It was a grey day, that day, and I was perhaps four or five. The hoarse cries of the gulls were suddenly a vicious chorus, as they left the bay in a large frenzy. I remember thinking it was strange. As I sat on the dunes, staring, the overcast sky darkened to thick, black rainclouds and I saw it out on the heaving water. A misty figure, like a ghost might look, coming toward the beach. As the thing drew closer and closer, its aspect became more and more horrifying. I felt the landscape grow colder and colder as it approached and had to fight off the impulse to cry, overcome by despair. _

_The creature was skeletal and its body looked rotten, like that of a corpse, covered in spectral robes moving eerily in the wind. I screamed and ran to Mrs Cole, who was sitting on the grass having a drink. I told her there was a monster on the beach – pointed at it – told her I wanted to leave. I naively thought she would protect me somehow. But the hooded thing was drifting over the sand amongst the children and no one noticed. It bent down as if sniffing different children as it ghosted closer to me. "You know it's rude to make up stories, Tom." Mrs Cole lectured me as she shrugged her jacket on. "But it is getting cold. We'll leave in an hour or so, how's that? Why don't you go and help Billy with his sandcastle?"_

_I told her we needed to leave _now_, that the horrible thing was going to eat me. That it had terrible grasping fingers and it made me feel I was never going to be happy again. I began to weep, hiding behind Mrs Cole as the creature came so near I could see the dark hole where its mouth should have been. It breathed frost into my lungs as I screamed and blacked out…_

"_It's a boy – Mrs Riddle you have a son!"_

"_Tom… after his father and… Marvolo after… after mine… Tom Marvolo Riddle…" The words were eked out of weariness._

"_Mrs Riddle, Mrs Riddle – listen to me. Gladys is fetching the doctor. Stay with me – stay with me for Tom…" It was Mrs Cole's voice._

"_No… no point… he's gone, Tom's gone…" _

"_He's right here, Mrs Riddle. He hasn't gone anywhere, look, little Tom is right here. Don't you want to hold him?"_

"_No! Gone… gone…"_

"_Mrs Riddle! Your son needs you – _Mrs Riddle_…!_

"_Ah – Mrs Cole, what's her condition?"_

"_She's… she's gone. I think she _wanted _to die…"_

**L.V.H.G**

"_It's not the first time I've noticed him behaving strangely. He's not like the other children." She was on the other side of my door, thinking I couldn't hear her talking to the nurse. _

_Ever since that day on the beach – the day the dementor made me remember my mother's death – I was different. I realised that, until then, I had held the mistaken belief that my mother loved me. It was an unspoken faith that, although she was gone, she must have cared for me when she was alive. This was before I found out about the foundlings. Before I stole into Mrs Cole's office and discovered most of us probably weren't orphans at all; that an orphanage wasn't so much a place for children with no parents as children who were unwanted._

_More importantly, I discovered that I could see, hear and do things other people couldn't. This could mean one of two things: either I was special, or I was delusional. So I set out to prove to myself I wasn't mad, that it was all real, because I couldn't bear the idea of being mad and I wanted so _badly_ to be special…_

"_WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU DEVIL-CHILD? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO LITTLE AMY?" _

"_I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am." I could make them hurt, if I want to... I could do anything I liked. And yet there remained that nagging thought – what if Mrs Cole was right? What if it was madness, the things I could do…?_

"_Tom? You've got a visitor," Mrs. Cole ushers in a strange bearded man with long auburn hair, dressed in a plum-coloured, well-tailored suit. "This is Mr. Dumberton – sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you – well, I'll let him do it." She closes the door, leaving me staring up at the extraordinary man. In my imagination I cast the man as a djnni – a fantastical thing summoned up to give me three wishes. He did have a benevolent, "three wishes" look. Then reality intervened: "How do you do, Tom?" He spoke with that kindly patronizing tone adults usually used on orphans. They expected us all to smile gratefully up like at them like proper orphans were supposed to… after a moment, I shook the proffered hand. He sat in the creaky wooden chair beside my bed. I sat up straight, crossing my legs and waited for him to explain. He had remarkably blue eyes._

"_I am Professor Dumbledore."_

_My mind froze at "professor." Conversations heard through keyholes and across rooms swam in my mind… "Yes… Tom – I shouldn't wish that poor boy on anyone… I look at him and I think – is he all there? It worries me, Gladys… to tell you the truth… Talking to a snake? Perhaps we should think about having him… you know – __**examined**__." It all became frighteningly clear._

"_Professor? Is that like doctor? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?" Panic rose in my chest. _

"_No, no…" another smile… he thinks it's funny? No, he wants me to come with him quietly… I won't! I won't! I'd like to see him try!_

"_I don't believe you. She wants me looked at, doesn't she? __**Tell the truth!"**__ I was almost shouting, my voice was hoarse – god, I probably sound insane – I'm not insane – people might hear me… I forced down the panic, "Who are you?" His smile didn't waver throughout – it scared me._

"_I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school – your new school, if you would like to come."_

_This wasn't just an examination – he was going to take me! A madhouse… oh god… I fell over myself to get away, backing into a corner, "You can't kid me! The asylum – that's where you're from, isn't it? Well, professor – yes – well, I'm not going – see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum!" I swallow, "I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!" I wring my hands and stare hatefully at him. I'd heard they tied people down and electrocuted them._

_His smile was starting to strain, "I am not from the asylum. I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I will tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you…"_

_I can hear my pulse throbbing in my chest, "I'd like to see them try!"_

"…_Hogwarts is a school for people with special abilities…" Special abilities… oh… it was straight out of my nightmares._

"_I'M NOT MAD!" I rage at him, tears in my eyes._

"_I know you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."_

_Is it a trick… or is it a revelation. Could it… could he know… am I…? I sucked in air. "Magic?" A word, a whisper, a promise..._

"_That's right."_

"_It's… It's magic, what I can do?" Unbelievable comprehension._

"_What is it you can do?"_

_It all tumbles out in a rush, a fevered, gasping confession: "All sorts: I can make things move without touching them, I can make animals do what I want them to without training them, I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me… I can make them hurt if I want to. I knew I was different, I knew I was special. Always – I knew there was something…" I had collapsed on my bed, quivering, hands almost covering my mouth – vindicated, dizzy, exhilarated… relieved, most of all relieved. Wild, joyful, wonderful relief!_

"_Well, you were quite right. You are a wizard." His smile had vanished._

**L.V.H.G**

I watch as Lord Voldemort falls backwards onto the grass with a dull thud, as if my words –_ that's why you enjoy killing people, isn't it?_ – were a Stunning Spell. I bend down, examining him. His hairless eyelids flicker, betraying the frantic movements of the hidden crimson eyes, just as when he fainted in the manor house that night. My words obviously triggered his memory somehow. I stand for a moment, just looking down at him._ I hope he doesn't remember anything too horrible. _Last time he'd been completely distraught. Hopefully, this vision would be less traumatising. Like… reading a book or talking to a snake or… whatever. A hissing whimper dashes my hopes. I sigh and get the tent out of my bag.

Casting the Muggle Repelling Charm makes me feel guilty. We're staying at the Roberts' campground, so I feel bad for not paying the fee. Especially since there doesn't appear to be anyone else camping, even though it's mid-summer. Maybe I'll leave some money at the camp office when we leave? Mr Weasley was the one who booked last time, so I don't know how much they charge. _I hope Mary Cattermole is alright…_

I levitate Voldemort inside and onto a bunk-bed. It's rather bizarre that he doesn't wear shoes. I seem to remember he was wearing boots at my house, but since then he's been running around barefoot. I don't know why, but it strikes me as funny that the Great Dark Lord should go without footwear like a tramp. Outside the tent, I can hear birdsong. It must be almost dawn… _another night with hardly any rest, just lovely._

I yawn, rub my eyes, and longingly consider the benefits of sleep. _Sleep!_ But Voldemort is beginning to stir. So I sit warily down at the end of the bed, wand ready, not knowing what to expect.

"I'M NOT MAD!" he shrieks, startling awake, making me jump, "I'M NOT MAD – I'M _NOT _MAD! I'm… I'm n-not… not…" He takes stock of his new surroundings; the dingy tent-flat, the bunk bed, and me – his glassy red eyes roving everywhere – he begins hissing again; weird, sad noises, clutching at the sheets with his claw-like nails. "H-Hermione? Do you think I'm insane…? Do… do you think that's why I can't remember…?"

_Of course you're insane! You're a bloody psychopath! _An exasperated voice remarkably like Ron's shouts in my head – but saying that to, well… a traumatised, insanely powerful psychopath might not be such a good idea, really. _Wait – his wand is still outside on the grass! _Which is a comforting thought for the few seconds it takes me to remember that he can cast wandless magic. He's still staring at me with those unblinking crimson eyes. "Um… well… do _you_ think you're insane?"

"I…" his lipless mouth forms an 'n' but he doesn't say no. It amazes me that I once found his face inexpressive, his eyes blank. There's so much there in the movements of his mouth, the constant dilations and contractions of those serpentine nostrils and… and the _eyes_. It was strange at first because he has no whites to his eyes but I can read them now: the subtle changes in their red and the shifting of the slit pupils. "I don't know... Dumbledore..."

"You were remembering Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes," he looks away from me, at the blankets that still smell Mr Perkins' geriatric cats. "I thought he'd come to take me to a mental institution. It was horrible."

Harry had told me and Ron about the memory the Headmaster shared with him. He didn't mention anything about Tom Riddle thinking Dumbledore was a psychiatrist. Mainly, he talked about how Riddle bragged he could speak to snakes once he found out about Hogwarts and the things he'd stolen from the other children. When I first met Professor Dumbledore I thought he looked like Merlin. I imagine I might not have liked him so much if I'd thought he was going to put me away.

"Because of my magic I thought I was having delusions – thinking I could talk to snakes, making things happen. I convinced myself I was special, gifted… I _proved_ to myself it was real, but there was always the fear that there was something wrong with me. They all said I wasn't normal. Mrs Cole wanted to have me examined by a specialist."

_I'd had the same fear._ I hadn't believed in magic, in Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny. My parents, being dentists, were very matter-of-fact about the loss of my baby teeth and every time one came out I was given a pound – they cut out the Tooth Fairy entirely. I thought my friends rather silly for believing in what little magic muggle children do believe in. So when_ things_ started happening… I didn't tell anyone. I thought I was going slowly crazy until Professor McGonagall arrived with my letter. I remember trying to talk to Harry about it once, but since the Dursleys (honestly, I can't _believe_ Harry didn't get taken off them by Child Services) told him he was a freak, he just put it down to his general freakishness. I look down and realise I've reached out and taken one of Voldemort's pale, long-fingers hands in one of my own. It _is_ cold, but the longer I hold it the warmer the white skin becomes.

"… He explained that he was a professor and he told me I was special. Well, of course, I was _terrified_. I thought he'd come to lock me up. And he just kept smiling at me like it was the jolliest thing in the world."

_The only one he ever feared… _Okay, I could see how that could traumatise a child; he made it sound like a horror film. No wonder Tom Riddle was afraid of Dumbledore. On the other hand, Riddle was psychopathic. Maybe that was just the way _he_ saw it, after all, psychopaths were supposed to be bad at reading other people, weren't they? I took a deep breath. "I understand. I didn't know I was a witch until Professor McGonagall told me. I thought I was hallucinating too. You _are_ gifted. Certainly the most powerful wizard in Britain," I smile and take another breath, squeezing his hand. "But… normal people don't enjoy mass murder. Normal people feel guilt and… and they empathise. I'm sorry, but there_ is_ something wrong with you, it… it just has nothing to do with your being a wizard."

He stares at me, gripping my hand painfully tight. "You're saying… the elation I felt earlier is a form of mental illness?"

"Yes. I'm sorry… I didn't want to tell you. I don't think anyone noticed it while you were at school, except maybe Professor Dumbledore, and after you became the Dark Lord, nobody would dare tell you. Maybe - maybe you weren't even affected with it then! Maybe it was only once you… um… began your transformation."

"You were afraid to tell me this. Afraid I would hurt you… kill you?"

I see no point in lying, the truth is obvious. "Yes." He _is_ hurting my hand.

"Hermione…" his vice-like fingers loosen their hold. "As long as you remain… on my side… you have nothing to fear from me. It's_ torture_ not knowing my own mind. I _need_ someone to tell me what is and is not sane. Someone who will explain things I have forgotten, who won't abandon me to the horrors I have no desire to remember." Relief pools in my stomach at his calm reaction to the whole thing.

Suddenly, he yanks my wrist hard, making me yelp as I fall into his arms, finding myself pressed against his bony shoulder, his arms wrapped close around me. He smells of grass, old magic and… _peppermint? _Of course, he's been using my toothpaste. "You won't leave me. You'll stay with me forever." The high voice whispers, so close that his breath caresses my ear. _That's actually scarier than thinking he's going to kill me… _"I can _smell _your fear, Hermione. There's really no reason to be afraid. We take good care each other, yes?"

"Umm… s-sure…" My vocal chords seem to have stopped working properly, along with my brain.

He kisses me on the lips. It tingles – perhaps in warning. His mouth is tentative, exploratory, but I don't respond – too paralysed with shock. Being kissed by someone without a nose is odd; the tip of my own touches his face. We taste of peppermint toothpaste. _How would he react to a refusal? _He desperately needs someone to anchor him and I, naïve idiot, hadn't even _imagined_ something like this. But it made a sad kind of sense. He was alone and Nagini, Mrs Cattermole, and I were the only ones he'd come into contact with who hadn't threatened or abused him. Nagini was a snake and he'd only talked to Mrs Cattermole for half an hour. That left me. Not for the first time, I wish I had some muggle books on psychopathy and amnesia. But he's still kissing me. "Hermione… you'll never leave… _never_ leave…"

_Merlin's pants, I need to say something! _"Do you… er… say that to every girl who tells you that you have mental problems?" _Where did that come from? _My voice is reduced to a pathetic squeak.

"Probably not… now… but now that you know you're quite safe," he holds me close, "explain to me why you didn't tell me my name."

_At least he's stopped kissing me. _"Well," I make an effort to wriggle out of his arms and his grip lessens, allowing me to sit beside him on the bunk, trying not to think about what just happened. _I'm going to have to confront him about that soon._ I fight off the urge to groan, _let's deal with_ _one battle at a time_. "Tom Riddle _is_ your real name... and, even though it's your chosen name, it's considered taboo to… _Oh_!"

Wide crimson eyes grow even larger, "What is it?"

"I couldn't work out how they broke through the wards I placed around your father's house! The Ministry must have placed a Taboo Curse on your name – I read about it in _The Dark Arts:_ _A Legal Compendium_. Placing a Taboo requires a really powerful dark ritual that the Ministry of Magic reserves the right to perform, but it has to be sanctioned unanimously by the Wizangamot. Whenever anyone says the Taboo word or phrase, all of their protective spells are disrupted and the Ministry can immediately pinpoint their location – which is why they found us right after I told you your chosen name!" _I have to warn Harry and Ron!_

"So… I can't say my own name?"

_I don't think I'm up to casting a Patronus Charm right now. _"I… don't know. It is _your_ name, so there's a chance you might be immune to the curse. I'd rather not take the chance."

"Interesting. You still haven't answered my original question."

"Right… um… well, despite what I said earlier tonight, I guess I was afraid of the name too. It was silly of me, I know, but I think I was afraid just knowing the name would… turn you back into that person."

"Hermione… I _am_ that person."

I'm struck down by a sudden realisation, my mouth falling open, "No! No, you're _not_ – not _yet_!" _How could I have forgotten?_ I'd been so busy trying to psychoanalyse him I'd forgotten what I'd realised, what he'd _told_ me, sitting on the floor of the Riddle House. How could I have been so stupid_? So much for 'the most brilliant witch of her age'!_

Now it's his turn to look at_ me_ like I'm insane, "Hermione–"

"No! _Listen:_ what makes us who we are? Our genes, yes, they're a big part of it… but our experiences – our _memories_ – are the most important. They inform every choice we make. You told me you didn't want to be Tom Riddle. Do you want to be the Dark Lord?" I could save Voldemort – I could save Harry.

_I could stop the war._

Voldemort frowns, "If you'd asked me that question a day ago, I would have replied without hesitation. But it's not that simple anymore. Every time I have a vision, things change. Remembering killing the Potters was… _seraphic_ in places." I can't help but shiver – _my friend's family_. I didn't know he'd remembered that. "But… do I want to keep remembering? No. If there were a way to stop the memories coming back, and I assume that's what you're suggesting, then I would agree to it…"

**H.G.L.V**

_Next Chapter: Hermione and Voldemort continue to have fun on their camping holiday as they have to confront their worst memories… Horcruxes are in the wings, and will show up either in the next chapter or the one after that. Apologies again for the wait._


	8. A Binding Promise

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The eighth chapter of the rewrite. In this chapter, I depart at one point from my usual preference of referencing the books rather than the movies. But in this case, the film version of _The Order of the Phoenix _adds so much to my story, I just _had_ to use it. I hope those of you who are book purists will forgive me. Again, sorry for the wait! It's the first week of university and life's gone a bit crazy. This chapter is a bit of a mess of different things. The next chapter will be a bit more focused. A big kiss to all my reviewers!

**Chapter Eight: A Binding Promise**

My wand is lying half-obscured in the long grass. I stoop to retrieve it, hardly able to credit that it took me so long to realise it was still out here. Rolling the darkly varnished wood between my fingers, my mind strays to the memory of James Potter's wand lying abandoned on the old sofa: such naïve carelessness. _How could I have been so stupid as to forget my wand? _Of course, Mr Potter and I are not at all equivalent. I have the gift of wandless magic, whereas he did not. _I am far more powerful than he ever was. _

Dawn is just beginning to edge the dark shadows of the forest with pale indigo. Still, _I must be more vigilant, else I shall end up back in a cell, or dead like the Potters. _We need to discover how to permanently seal away my memories soon – I do not like how vulnerable I am with the prospect of a seizure at any time. And it_ is_ seizure: I am held hostage by my own fragmented mind. _Am I never allowed to remember anything good? My mother_… I had not given her much thought before tonight. Any mother might die giving birth to her child. But Hermione told Mary Cattermole I was a half-blood, which meant that my mother had to have been a witch. My wand tingles in my left hand, as if trying to reassure me. _He's right here, Mrs Riddle… little Tom is right here. Don't you want to hold him? _Fresh grief twists inside me and I swallow compulsively, feeling the urge to vomit even though there's no food in my stomach. _She was a witch, but she hadn't wanted to live for me; she hadn't wanted me at all. _My father, my mother, my servants… was there _no one_? Not a single person in my memories who had cared for me? _An orphanage wasn't so much a place for children with no parents as children who were unwanted…_

I think of Hermione, asleep inside the tent. _Hermione… _I am certain I would have been driven mad by these visions if it were not for her anxious brown eyes waiting for me when I wake up. I have forgiven her for her indiscretion with her friends; she persuaded them of her safety by lying to them – fine. She has not attempted to contact them since then. _Or… or has she? _Events pushed the thought from my mind. _She could easily have sent them a message whilst I was trapped in my visions. _All of this… it could have been solely to win back my trust, a trick so she may keep "containing" me. Fear rushes through me. _Hermione wouldn't… Hermione gave me her word…_

True, she betrayed me to her vigilante companions. But she helped me, healed me, and defended me. She attacked me on the road, but when I offered her a choice, as befitted her earlier assistance, she agreed to stay with me. Since then she has been loyal to me. _And, honestly, she's such an appalling liar she couldn't possibly deceive me for so long. _The rubbish Hermione told Mrs Cattermole was laughable. An odd smile transfixes my mouth, making my facial muscles ache as my fears subside. No, there is no danger from Hermione. _She won't abandon me._

Orange is beginning to slip between the trees and dazzle my eyes, striking long lines of light across the grass, mingling with the shadows. The birds are very loud now, as if all hassling each other in a great chorus of argument, above and around me. It's strangely peaceful to listen to and keeps me awake. Sleep, for me, has become more torturous than any nightmare. So I watch the sunrise, only retreating when the light begins to blur my vision. Clearly, I am a nocturnal creature. But the sun warming my bleached skin makes me linger, eyes closed, for a few moments before returning to the tent.

**L.V.H.G**

A delicious smell wakes me. I rub my eyes and heave myself upright, brushing my hair off my face. I re-tie the chord of my red dressing-gown over my pyjamas, shuffling into my slippers, following the aroma. In the tent-flat's small lounge, my beaded bag has been upended and all my books are in a huge pile on one of Perkins' old, crochet-covered couches. I notice _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ sitting on the top of the book mountain and quickly snatch it and shrink it down to stuff it in my dressing-gown pocket. The longer I can keep him away from Horcruxes, the better. In the kitchen, Lord Voldemort – his pale feet bare against the lino and his trailing, black sleeves shoved up to his knobbly elbows – is making breakfast. The large grey pan (which looks like something out of a commercial muggle kitchen) has obviously been either summoned or transfigured. Eggs are whisking themselves together in a matching grey bowl and butter is rolling itself around in the hot pan, whilst vegetables are being busily diced by invisible knives. It's like a scene from a Disney film. "I thought you'd given up on food?" I ask, hypnotised by the sheer number of spells he's maintaining at the same time.

"Yes," the scarlet eyes stare down at me for a moment before turning back to the food, "But I have to eat nevertheless. In the absence of memory I find it rather enjoyable to use skills I intuitively remember, one of which seems to be how to make a savoury omelette. Besides, it's also for you."

It strikes me that maybe going camping with Voldemort won't be so bad after all, as the eggs pour themselves into the sizzling pan. I would probably have been the one making most of the food, if I'd been with Harry and Ron. "Most wizards don't know how to cook. To tell the truth, culinary spells were never my forte either, although I did put _Kitchen Wizardry Made Simple _in my bag. But… this is _brilliant_." It's breath-taking how much complicated charm-work is going on simultaneously, without any apparent effort on Voldemort's part. He appears to be more concerned about the right time to add the different ingredients than the cheese that's slicing itself while he stares intently at the pan. _I didn't buy cheese! _Then I notice a can of tinned soup sitting empty on the bench and the fact than the cheese is oddly conical. _Tomato-flavoured cheese might taste rather nice, actually._ "Have you slept?" I greedily inhale the smells coming from the pan.

"No…" the slit nostrils flare, "I have no desire to dream. I've been looking through some of your books and became… rather frustrated. Besides, one of us ought to stay up and keep watch."

"You're remembering things in your sleep?"

Voldemort avoids my gaze, his flat profile rigid as he stares at the kitchen bench and his expression closes down. "Yes." There are grey-blue smudges beneath his eyes and he radiates tension. _Maybe I should give him some Pepper-Up Potion?_

"_Well_," I begin, making an effort to sound as positive and enthusiastic as possible, "I think the first thing we should do is make a detailed list of your symptoms. There could be something important we've missed which might give us a clue about what we're dealing with." He nods curtly and flicks his wand, causing the diced vegetables to jump into the pan atop the egg. "That smells _really _great – I never pictured you as a man who liked being in the kitchen." It's almost… sweet.

"I… remember eating birds' eggs as a tree snake. I can't say how I _felt _about cooking, only that there seems to be a certain satisfaction in being able to competently see to my own needs… and yours." _Harry told us Tom Riddle never depended on anyone; he even went to Diagon Alley alone after receiving his Hogwarts letter. _I couldn't imagine being that independent at eleven. I suppose it makes sense that Voldemort would want to be able to fend for himself without relying on anyone else to prepare his meals. But Professor Dumbledore also told Harry that Tom Riddle had never had, nor desired, a friend. _That can't be true. He's desperate for a friend – for someone who cares about him. _I suppose it's hard to set aside hindsight in order to see the truth at the time, even for someone as wise as Dumbledore. "Hermione?" the soft, chilly voice interrupts my thoughts, "here's your omelette." White fingers thrust a plate under my nose, along with a knife and fork. "Of what were you thinking?"

"Professor Dumbledore…" I sigh as I wander into the lounge and sit down in an armchair, balancing my plate on my lap. "I don't think he understood you as well as he thought." Voldemort gives a derogative hiss at my words and begins viciously spearing his omelette with his fork. It tastes wonderful. Egg and cheese and fresh vegetables! I find myself behaving like Ron: wolfing down the food on my plate and then looking around for more. Voldemort begins by attacking his breakfast equally fast, but soon slows down, picking disconsolately at the food. "That was _so _good, _definitely_ better than my mum's omelettes."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," the crimson eyes meet my own "perhaps you'd like to finish mine?" He offers his breakfast to me, only half-eaten. I can't help but gaze at the melted tomato-cheese on his plate with an acquisitive eye. But then I take in the whole picture: the gaunt hand holding out the omelette, connected to a wrist smaller than mine; his emaciated figure frighteningly thin for his imposingly tall, long-limbed frame. He's got the body of an anorexic. _Why does nothing he eats taste nice? _Wait, how could I forget? Unicorn's blood! _'… Drinking the blood of a unicorn will keep a witch or wizard alive, even if they are an inch from death. However, only the truly desperate would ever let unicorn blood cross their lips as it carries a terrible curse._ _Sunlight will afflict their eyes and food will turn to ashes in their mouth…' _I realise I haven't ever heard of or seen Voldemort out and about in daylight.

"You ought to finish it," I reply, taking my own plate back to the kitchen, "you need to eat." I use the Aguamenti Charm to fill us two glasses of water and go back into the lounge, where Voldemort is leafing through _The Magic of the Mind_, occasionally shooting his meal disdainful glances. It really is a shame, since he made such lovely food. I decide to leave him to it and pull a notebook and quill out of my bag. I'm pretty sure his instinct for survival will win over his taste buds eventually. I focus on the task at hand. "Alright, so what happened just before you got the first memory return to you?"

Lord Voldemort leans back and closes his lurid, distracting eyes, making it easier for us both to concentrate. "It was… in the garage. I had been inside Nagini's mind but had difficulty returning to my own body. I panicked and blacked out." _So his first memory came back after being in close contact with one of his Horcruxes, interesting. _I made a note. "And what did you remember?"

His voice is eerily toneless, "I was walking up the hill to kill my father."

I tried to think about what he was saying, not what the words meant. "And… your second memory?"

"You saw me fall outside the dining room. I relived killing my father and grandparents. I can't recall what I was thinking of when I came out of it, only that I felt angry and overwhelmed… and then came the vision of staying at my late father's house as a simulacrum of a… child. Since then, memories have come in my sleep. That night I dreamt of possessing the snake in the forest. In the few hours of sleep I managed last night, I saw myself killing James and Lily Potter. This morning… I was afraid. Afraid of… madness…. and I told you what I saw.

I wrote it all down and stared at my notes. "So all the visions you have when you're awake are connected with strong negative emotions?"_ Voldemort's visions are behaving like Harry's scar – wait, would that mean he'll have visions connected with strong positive emotions too? Or is it like accidental magic?_

The eyes open a fraction, slivers of red assessing me carefully. "Yes… But I had many of those whilst imprisoned and nothing came back to me." Now I'm treated to a full-on livid glare. _Note to self: make sure Voldemort has a proper night's sleep tonight._

"I think Nagini was the catalyst… in possessing her, your mind would have come in contact with memories of you. You would have been able to make mental connections you were unable to in your own head_." …Because there is a duplicate of most of your memories inside your snake. _Harry's scar is his connection with Voldemort, what does it say if Voldemort's memories are working the same way? They must be governed by the same type of magic. The catalyst for Voldemort was in possessing his Horcrux – otherwise whatever gave him amnesia would probably have stuck. The catalyst for Harry was being cursed by Voldemort… no, the transferral of some of Voldemort's powers into Harry through his scar. I've often wondered how that explained his emotional connection to the Dark Lord…

_No. _Distantly, I observe my notebook is shaking in my hands. _Harry couldn't be…? _I force myself to think about it logically. What do you need to make a Horcrux? Murder… Lily Potter... _But – but Voldemort didn't enchant Harry!_ He… he _can't _be… But Owle Bullock said that by splitting your soul just once you make it really unstable, so maybe…?

_No! _

**L.V.H.G**

Hermione… crumples. Her pink mouth goes from determined to quivering, her notebook slipping through her twisting fingers to land on her slipper-clad feet. Her lashes, tight against her cheeks, block out the world as she sobs, her thick hair falling across her face. I want to touch her now, more than ever. But I don't like her tears, her noisome, girlish sobs. _What has she realised? Is there no hope? Am I condemned to live with these horrors stalking within my shuttered mind? What fate am I consigned to? What?-!_

"Hermione?" I call, moving toward her. "What is it? _Hermione!_"

She refuses to look at me, face in her hands. _I had never been able to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage… _But these tears are running down _Hermione's_ soft face, _Hermione's_ quivering hands. I've seen her fearful and shivering like a little mouse – but never undone. Always with her there was a reassuring determination to overcome her weaknesses despite her fears. And still, she will not meet my gaze.

I do not know what to do. I want to stopper her sobs – I want her to be _Hermione_ again. But there is some satisfaction in watching her unravel, to know that she too is lost and we are bound together in hopelessness. But, more than that, I want her to meet my eyes, to tell me the mystery her tears are keeping from me. I reach for her shoulders, thinking to be gentle like she was, but my nails dig into her with fierce need and my voice surprises me with its commanding steel: _"Tell me!" _

Her chin lifts and her glassy eyes reveal nothing. She is mute, a doll in my arms, fumbling, mumbling lips barren of sound. I shake her, trying to bring back her sparkling temper, trying to see what it is that has unhinged her – my thin fingers pressing into her flesh. Nothing. _I need to see, I need to know…!_

And in those tearful eyes I see – as into a pool – a hundred images, moving together like a kaleidoscope, the same face over and over: green eyes behind glass, untidy hair, a bizarre scar; a face I recognise from my memories and Nagini's as the boy who viciously set upon me in the garage. Overlaid with Hermione's voice, repeating, repeating like a sacred mantra: _not Harry, not Harry, not Harry, not Harry!_

"…_Not Harry, please no! Take me, kill me instead…!_ _Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy…I'll do anything…!_

I fling her from me as if she'd been made of the burning rope, making her cry out at last as she hits the floor. _You thought she was crying for _you_, didn't you? _A merciless voice whispers in my ear. _Why would you expect Hermione to care for you when your own mother abandoned you for death? If she cares so much for Harry, let her die for it like Lily Potter… LET HER DIE LIKE THE SILLY GIRL SHE IS! _

"…_No_–!" I manage to gasp, head thrumming at the pain in my temples, desperately trying to fight off the pain that comes crowding into my soul…

…_I coiled myself around Potter's shuddering consciousness, chaining him to my will with absurd ease – he was so weak. His body was awkward, gangly, ungraceful, but I wrenched its lips into a delighted smile – a perfect revenge on the old foolish professor, who stared at me with craven horror – his confidence shattered. As it should be! Yes, fear me as you should! "Kill me now, Dumbledore…" I whispered to my old Transfiguration Master, as I gained strength from the horror writ so deep in those blue eyes. "If death is nothing, kill the boy…" _

"_Harry…" Dumbledore implored uselessly, "…it isn't how you're alike it is how you're different… Harry…" His pathetic whimpering made me laugh as I flitted through Potter's grief, savouring his abject suffering, rifling through his weak mind with vicious joy as I observed Dumbledore's legendary confidence crumble before Potter's eyes, utterly incapable of defeating me inside the boy's shell. The fool!_

_The children – pitiful would-be aurors! – gazed dumbstruck at their fallen hero from the edge of the atrium's smooth tiles. A bushy haired girl steps forward, only to still at a gesture from Dumbledore. The boy suddenly writhed out of my control and I had to spend a moment forcing his recalcitrant mind into submission. But there was a strange, prickly heat everywhere and we both tumbled through his desperate thoughts…_

_Embracing a dark-haired man whose smile reminded me of Bellatrix – the yearning for reunion – his parents standing shoulder to shoulder in a dusty mirror filling his heart with – with a pain that pricked my spirit like a thousand needles – a searing, awful feeling that threatened to wrest him from my grasp. Furiously, I battled the onslaught – determined not to be bested by a child. But the memories went on and on: the bushy-haired girl casting her arms about him – a red-headed boy slapping his back with a grin – all three children laughing together in the snow – by the fireside – in the Great Hall – an overwhelming wave of pure agony loosened my mind; unable to cope with the raw emotion which flooded my consciousness…_

"_You're the weak one," Potter gasped. I lashed out in fury only to meet a bright, gleaming thing that burned my soul like his flesh scalded Quirrel's hands. "… And you'll never know love or friendship…" Not even being ripped from my body was comparable to this torture. I screamed – it was unlike anything I'd ever known. It wrenched me back to my earliest childhood and pierced me with the deepest pain imaginable, heedless of my impotent cries. "… And I feel _sorry _for you…!" _

_The memory of Dumbledore's voice: _You remain… forgive me… woefully ignorant… _The pitying glances he used to shoot me at school – as Potter forced me to experience every inch of his pity: as though I were something helpless and diseased as though I – as though I – as though I… _

_I flung myself desperately from his mind, away from that sea of unbearable feelings which threatened to engulf me. I am Lord Voldemort! I repeated the words as I did in Albania, I will go on – I am Lord Voldemort… and love is nothing more than a foolish delusion! _

_I am Lord Voldemort…_

"_Aagh_…!" I swallow air compulsively, gripping my wand. And there she is: the girl from Harry Potter's memories – older now – staring at me as I lay on the shabby carpet. Her face is dry, but pink from crying. I _hate _her… I hate her for the lying, filthy representative of the world she is! I hate her for her ever-present fear and the touching and laughter she will never share with me. Most of all, I hate my own weakness, that I cannot take my eyes from her.

She reaches toward me, putting her small, warm fingers atop my own. I am incapable of speech. Beside us, water is slowly spreading across the carpet out of an overturned glass. "_Hey_…" she murmurs. With her other hand she takes a swig of something in a small glass bottle, before passing it to me. "It's just a Calming Draught. I think we both need it." The liquid tastes bitter, but as it slides down my throat I can feel my muscles relax and my heart slow from its furious speed, allowing my thoughts to form with a frightening clarity: _You are wrong, Harry Potter. I will have these things. I will take them – I will take her – from you. _I put the bottle down and crawl closer to Hermione while she stares sadly at the floor. "This is just crazy…" she says, disbelieving. For a moment, I think she might burst into tears again, but she doesn't.

"What is it?" I whisper redundantly, not wanting to give away my discovery that Nagini is not the only creature to whose mind I have access.

"Harry… my best friend… I don't… I don't want him to die…" her voice is tiny.

I consider my next words very carefully: "Then your friend shall not die, Hermione. Not when we can save him." _Save him for eternal misery!_

She sits up, staring at me searchingly. "You… you _promise_?"

"If the means to prevent it is within my power, I promise you, Hermione." I grasp her right hand, "Harry Potter shall not die." A thin band of golden light wraps around our joined hands, sealing my promise.

And already I begin to reap the rewards of my vow, as she draws even closer to me, hugging me as she did him, leaning her head against my shoulder. "Thank you, _thank you_…"

**L.V.H.G**

I persuade Voldemort that we ought to keep moving, not stay in one place for too long. At first he disagrees, and of course he's perfectly capable of making sure anyone who might come looking for us doesn't come back, but eventually I convince him. I still can't believe Voldemort gave me a binding promise that he would make sure Harry lived. Given his knowledge of their past and how Harry behaved with him at the Burrow, I would have thought he'd be more vindictive, but apparently he really _is_ different. I'll wait until he's asleep and then send a message to Harry about the Taboo. I can't tell Harry about the Horcrux yet, not until I'm absolutely sure.

Outside, I get the rare chance to see Lord Voldemort in daylight. He's clearly uncomfortable, the hood of his dark robes drawn low over his face with the eyes beneath open only a crack, and his movements shuffling and uncertain, without their accustomed grace. I smile, stuffing the tent into my beaded bag, and transfigure a rock into a pair of glasses (a handy spell I'd learnt in case Harry ever had an accident with his). It's the work of a moment to turn them from magnifying lenses to black shades. "These should help…" I press them into his hand, pleased with my handy-work.

He hisses at me from between clenched teeth, "Remind me, Hermione, just how spectacles stay on one's _face_?"

_Why is he being so difficult? _"Oh, for _Merlin's sake_, you put them on your nose and… _oh_." _Wow, Miss Hermione Jean Granger, could you be any more tactless? _"Umm… right. Well. M-maybe a sticking charm… then?" He gives me as patronising a stare as he can manage whilst squinting and holds out the glasses. I charm the bridge and pass them back. With great condescension, he puts them on, pressing them into his face with a long forefinger. I visualised glasses just like Harry's but on Voldemort as sunglasses they look completely different, their round shape rather oriental and old-fashioned. "Does it help?"

"Yes," he admits, his open eyes lending the dark spectacles a sanguine lustre. "I still can't see as well as at night, but this is… bearable. Thank you." His words are stiff – he still hasn't forgiven me for my faux pas. I take his hand and we disapparate.

**L.V.H.G**

We are staying on the edge of a small town, where some of Hermione's muggle relatives once dwelled. We continue to sift through her volumes, searching for the answers to my predicament. Hermione has given me several vials of Calming Draught to keep with me, just in case. She is buried in _Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes, _by E. Litmus, her curls falling across its pages to be occasionally swiped aside in irritation.

My own fingers find _Magic Most Evile_, by someone with the unfortunate name of Godelot. It's a fairly useless book and I soon find my mind wandering. I put on my new spectacles, peering outside. In the distance, the town looks quiet in the late afternoon. But the sky is very low and dark, pregnant with rain. I stand, watching, trying to discern why the air feels cold and eerily familiar. I step outside. It's not that late, but the sky is fast becoming so black that I could almost forsake the glasses. I walk toward the town, making sure my face is hidden under my cloak, moving forward as if in a trance.

They are above and around – _everywhere_. Those horrible, decayed creatures with their black maws and ripped, trailing robes, gliding amongst unseeing muggles. Four of them drift closer to me, across the railway tracks which separate the town from the edge of the moorland where Hermione pitched our tent. Yet, unlike before, the Dementors do not swoop close, but regard me from a distance away, waiting for something unknowable.

I can hear Hermione behind me. "What?-!" Then she falls silent, running in front of me. "_Expecto Patronum_!" A silvery glow issues from her wand and the creatures draw closer, moving toward Hermione with a grim finality. Her voice quivers, but she flings her arms wide, shielding me from them. "_EXPECTO PATRONUM!" _But it's still not enough, as the creatures neatly avoid her jet of silver light. _She's defending me, _I realise, _Hermione is defending me… _Even in the chill of the creatures' aura, the feeling warms me. But as soon as it comes, the feeling slips away as the Dementors suddenly turn their sightless faces to _me_, drawing closer and closer to me and Hermione. Hermione, whose face is almost as pale as mine, Hermione, her wand trembling in her hand... "Expecto… E-exp-p-pecto… P-pat… p-pat…" Her teeth are clattering together with cold. My own wand hangs useless by my side as I am left with nothing but eviscerating despair…

**L.V.H.G**

Lord Voldemort collapses beside me, fainting just like Harry did on the train in third year. I keep trying to summon forth happy memories – _holding hands with Ron – winning the House Cup – laughing at one of Ron's jokes_… But all my wand emits are a few sorry puffs of silver. I grab Voldemort's arm and try to disapparate, but the words won't come. _If only Harry were here… _I wish as the creatures move to cover us, _if only…_

"Hey, the horrible beasties have found something!" I hear the voice as though through miles of cotton wool. "I told you there would be mudbloods hiding in this place! Over by the tracks!" _They can't find Lord Voldemort unconscious! They can't! I have to… I have to… _Without the strength for even a simple Summoning Charm, I dig desperately around in my bag. _There it is._ My hand closes on the bottle and I rip a chuck of my hair out as the Dementors close in, unscrewing the recycled butter-beer bottle and stuffing the clump of hair in with my shaking fingers… _Ron kissing Lavender Brown… saying goodbye to my parents… Harry broken on the floor of the Department of Mysteries… Voldemort… Voldemort…_

"Get away! _Get away_ – we need to examine 'em!" I pour the stuff into Voldemort's mouth, hoping against hope that he'll swallow the disgusting, honey-coloured potion. Miraculously, some of it goes down his throat and just as the air begins to clear and the dark wizards close in, the distinctive, waxen features begin to warp and twist.

Someone pulls me roughly to my feet, "Well, what have we got here then? What's your name little girl?" a horrible, greasy voice sounds in my ear.

"P-Penelope C-Clearwater!" I manage to stutter out the first name that comes into my head as he wrenches away my wand with an ugly leer. "I'm – I'm a half-blood!"

"Is that so?" The greasy thug laughs. "You ever heard of any Clearwaters, eh Bert?"

They all laugh. Their faces are thick with cruelty. The one called Bert slings Voldemort over his large shoulder, while another plays with the infamous yew wand as if it were a toy. "Nah, I reckon you and your mudblood sister are coming to the Ministry with us to face the committee." He leans close, so his lips are flush against my ear, his foul breath hot on my cheek. "Because you know what we like to give sweet little girls like you? WELL, DO YOU?-!"

I shake my head wordlessly.

"A nice, fat… _kiss_!" He licks my face and I scream as something heavy collides with the back of my head.

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Hermione and Voldemort find themselves under sentence as mudbloods! But Delores Umbridge may have bitten off more than she can chew... _


	9. The Other Tom

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The ninth chapter of the rewrite. I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but it'll have to do. Tom Riddle's experiences in the summers of 1939 and 1940 are all based on the accounts of children before and during the Blitz (including the evacuation joke). However, when I planned this chapter some time ago, I didn't have the bombing chronology quite right, but I couldn't bring myself to change it because it made so much sense for the story. So, in this story, the events of September 1940 happen in August 1940. Oh well, it's AU I'm writing anyway. I owe a debt to _World's End: A Memoir of a Blitz Childhood_ by Donald Wheal_, Living through the Blitz_ by Tom Harrisson, and _Boy in the Blitz_ by Colin Perry. I should also mention a documentary about death-anxiety I saw recently called, amusingly enough, _Flight from Death: the Quest for Immortality_.

Also, I have some sad news. I've finally managed to get hold of the stick with the original _You Know You? _on it (a long delay, I know!) and there are several chapters missing. I'm working off the notes I have, but they're just that, _notes_. So I'm afraid I can't provide the original for those who requested it. I'm really sorry guys. Maybe when I finish this story I'll get the original in order. Right now I assumed you'd prefer it if I kept writing this version instead of piecing the old one back together.

Anyway, thank you so,_ so_ much to everyone who has reviewed the story so far. But please remember that I can't respond to anonymous reviews and that this website has banned review responses in stories. So if you want me to reply, please sign in!_ I love you all_ and hope you enjoy chapter nine! *kisses*

**Warning:** This chapter contains (non-sexual) violence of a graphic nature.

**Chapter Nine: The Other Tom**

…_And then I broke: I was nothing – nothing but pain and terror and, as the trapped child was screaming in the rubble of the ruined house. I saw my wand lying in the dust, but I had no hands to reach for it. It was pain beyond pain – I too screamed; a helpless, soundless wail. If I had no body, why did my head hurt so badly? If I was dead, why was the pain so unbearable? Didn't pain cease with death, didn't it go…? _

**L.V.H.G**

…_When I returned to the orphanage, at the end of my first year at Hogwarts, things were different. Upon my arrival, I was immediately taken aside by Mrs Cole who was intent on forcing a black, bug-eyed, rubber clamp onto my face. It smelt horrible and I immediately supposed it was some new punishment – although what I'd done to make her so upset on my first day back, I wasn't sure. She viciously adjusted the straps, so as to suffocate me. "Now, Tom," she said, glaring at me, "if war breaks out you are to carry this with you at all times, wherever you go, understand?" _

_War? At Hogwarts no one had hinted at such a thing. The denizens of the orphanage knew all about it. Billy Stubbs – an avid aircraft fan – explained: "We could be under attack from Jerry spitfires any moment!" This was, mostly, a cause for excitement rather than terror. But I began to experience the first stirrings of the fear that would come to dominate my summers until I left school. _

_On the twenty-second of August things became clearer. "Children," Mrs Cole addressed us in the refectory, "does anyone know what the word evacuation means?" A deep collective silence, coupled with shuffling embarrassment. A coal cart was audible outside, crunched on iron wheels. Everyone knew and no one was prepared to volunteer. I simply sat straight-backed, face blank. "Evacuation? Come along now, evacuation means…?" _

"_It means going to the lav reg'lar, ma'am," echoed the voice of Eric Whalley from the back of the hall. "Nurse said even when it's so cold you just don't want to, you've still got to go. Fer yer 'ealf..." His voice trailed away. Mrs Cole was shaking her head solemnly._

"_No, Eric, it does not."_

_Well, I thought, that was one in the eye for the visiting nurse because, as a matter of fact, evacuation was one of her favourite topics and we'd all received a talking-to from her. The orphanage buzzed urgently and Mrs Cole held up a hand for silence. "Evacuation is something decided by the government in case of war," she informed us. "Evacuation means taking all the children out of London to keep them safe from the bomber."_

_We had no idea how long we had left in London. It depended – apparently – on who Hitler was going to invade next. Of course, my Slytherin housemates had told me about Lord Grindelwald and his plans for muggles, but I could only assume that there was a connection – I felt crushingly ignorant and helpless. I counted the days until my return to Hogwarts as we all practiced lining up for the buses that would take us away to the country. But the day of the evacuation, the day we heard of German troops invading Poland, turned out to be the first day of September. It was a great relief to return to where I belonged, albeit with a gas mask tucked secretly into the bottom of my trunk…_

… _At the end of my second year it was different. It was obvious to me as soon as I stepped out into King's Cross Station. Although it was evening, there were no lights breaking up the dusk. White paint was plastered all over the concrete platform and no one lingered in their movements. The bus back to the orphanage was slow and didn't take its usual route. The entire skyline was dark and it was only with their removal that I realised how many street lights and illuminating windows there normally were. It was sinister and I could not use my wand to light the way. _

_When I finally reached the hated grey building with its high, cast-iron railings, its door was shut. I knocked. There were none of the accustomed noises of the orphanage: crying, shouting, jeering, and the creaking of footsteps on the old wooden floorboards. The place seemed hollow. I had a terrible premonition of what had happened and crashed my fist into the door more desperately. 'Evacuation means taking all the children out of London to keep them safe…' If only I were allowed to use magic… _

_There was a distant drone on the air, like a swarm of irritated bees. Then the howling began. At first it seemed far away, then it was all around me – deafening – as I battered at the door, shouting to be let in. The sirens moved on, away to the north, as – somewhere – the crack, crack, crack of artillery fire split the air like a hundred wizards apparating one after the other. I was about to give up when the door creaked open and an old man stood there, staring at me dyspeptically. "What do you want?" he grated, "There's a public shelter at the end of the street." _

"_I live here."_

"_Nobody lives here. They all bin evacuated, ain't they?"_

"_I'm… I'm Tom Riddle."_

"_So?"_

"_I live here!" the frustration spilled out of me, flung dangerously into the air. The old muggle took a step back, his beady eyes suddenly wide. Good. I could still do _that _kind of magic. Just watching the man draw back calmed me a little. _

"_S-suppose you'd better c-come in then…"_

_They had all gone. Only the old man remained, taking care of this building and several others down the street. My room was just as I had left it. I stared at its familiar geography, feeling betrayed: no one had remembered me… or maybe Mrs Cole thought I deserved to be forgotten, that I deserved to be killed whilst the others were safe in the country. If only I could use my wand… if only I had enough money to leave this place forever… _

… _I'd stayed late at _Flourish and Blotts_ – later than was prudent. But Diagon Alley was an island of peace in the middle of chaos. The magical community cared nothing for a muggle war. It was the safest place to be, as the alleys had special wards, protecting them from harm. If I'd had enough money, I would have rented a room there. The witch who ran the bookshop let me sit and read and even brought me lunch once I explained my predicament. "Ooh, those muggles…! Dropping explosives on each other's heads! They're crazy!"_

_The shop shut at five o'clock, which left me more than enough summer light to get back to the orphanage before nightfall. But the bookshop was open late on Friday and I had been so engrossed in my book I hadn't noticed it was growing dark outside. Walking down Diagon Alley, it could have been a tranquil summer evening – just the sound of shutters being closed and the last few people going home. But once through the Leaky Cauldron and out into the streets, it was like a fireworks display. As I ran down darkened streets, whichever way I looked the sky was alight with furnace-like fires. Tall buildings were bathed in the white light of German flares as planes droned overhead. _

_I ran as fast as I could, the sound of my feet drowned out by the anti-aircraft guns. I stopped to get my breath back on Vauxhall Road, unable to take my eyes from the sky. "Hello!" a young voice called out. "You shouldn't be out here, kid. Where are your parents?" He carried a blue-dimmed torch and his young face wasn't much older than mine under his hard hat. _

"_I don't have any," I said abruptly, panting, not wanting this boy's pity._

_He extended an arm, "Stick with me, I'll get you to a shelter. My name's Tom."_

_I hated the older boy, and I hated myself for taking his hand in my fear. "M-Marvolo," I told him, refusing to admit to him we shared the same name. _

_He smiled down at me. "Well, Marvolo, just keep calm and we'll–"_

_The sky screamed downward and exploded, catapulting me across the street. I landed hard on the stones and fought for air, trying to scoop the dust and soot from my mouth, trying to breathe when the shock waves from the blast had sucked every bit of air from my lungs. I wrapped my arms about my shoulders, dreading a second explosion which would detach the breath from my chest forever._

_It didn't come. I raised my head. Tall, mocking flames were dancing in the shop windows. I heard the crack and rumble of another bomb falling nearby. A cloud of dust swirled around me, making me cover my face. The ground, inches deep in shattered glass, seemed to ripple like water, reflecting at every gutter of the flames. Tossed in amongst the glass were wares of all descriptions, fork-pitched into the centre of the road. I became cognisant of myself – my body – lying at an awkward angle, half-buried in shards. Blood was dripping from my face, thick and bright under the misty light of a flare. A book lay in front of me, my blood mingling with its pages. I stared at it dumbly for a moment, watching the red drops hit the fluttering paper, and then reached out a gashed hand to take it. Shakily, I got to my feet, some unknown impulse making me clutch the filthy book like a talisman. _

_I didn't see the Other Tom at first. Something lay there, smashed by the bomb into a mixture of dirty rags and cats' meat, only the hard hat survived to bear recognition. It hadn't been my magic which had saved me, just sheer luck. It could easily have been the Other Tom standing here, gazing down at what was left of my corpse. It was infuriating. It made me angrier than I had ever been in the twelve years of my existence. That everything of who I was might be gone in seconds, leaving nothing but an unremarkable meat shell. Taken, not by any enemy of mine, but a force to whom I was nothing, an incidental – just in the way – an overwhelming power which didn't even know I existed. _

_I stopped going to Diagon Alley. I sat in the dark cellar, where once I would have been sent to be punished, waiting for the holidays to end. The sirens followed me underground: early in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the evening. I heard sirens and the world became a siren. One endless cry of torture. It penetrated right to the core of my being, night and day were one long night, one long nightmare as I prayed to a god I did not believe in for the Other Tom's fate not to become my own…_

**L.V.H.G**

…_I stood before the Headmaster and removed my hat in his presence; abandoning poise to the nervous, humble orphan I seemed to be. "You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?"_

"_Sit down," he waved a venerable hand toward a seat, "I've just been reading the letter you sent me." The balding old fool had the most disgusting expression of pity plastered across his face as he watched me seat myself. _

_There was my answer: my appeal was to be refused. I couldn't stop my hands from tightening, clasped together in my lap; rage building up behind my eyes while I waited for him to continue._

"_My dear boy," Dippet said in softly patronising tones, "I cannot possibly let you stay in school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"_

_Did he actually read my letter, or was he just turning me down on principle? "No," I said firmly. "I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that – to that –" The emotion which slipped into my voice was meant to be false, but the very real upset I was trying to hide made me stumble over the words. I, the heir of Salazar Slytherin, to be once more consigned to that horrible, empty death-trap; it was true, then, that I could only rely upon myself. No one else cared whether I lived or died. It was people like Dippet who had forced me to take matters into my own hands. He would regret this. _

"_You live in a muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?" _

_He knew where I lived and had the effrontery to call such a place a home! My face began to flush with anger: that letter would have made a goblin weep. Yet I kept up my façade, "Yes, sir." _

"_You are Muggle-born?"_

_Being suspected of being a Muggle-born is a curse at Hogwarts, except when it obviously precludes you from opening the Chamber of Secrets. I'd had no end of amusement when the few Slytherins who disliked me threatened I'd be next. But the Headmaster had my file, so best to be honest. "Half-blood, sir. Muggle father, Witch mother."_

"_And are both your parents–?"_

_No, I lived in that orphanage for a lark! But I made my eyes wide and gave him the heart-breaking tale he solicited. "My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me: Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather."_ She's… she's gone. I think she wanted to die… _That's all she'd cared about, giving me my father's horrible name. Merope Gaunt – my mother – that despicable blood-traitor… _

_The Headmaster clucked is tongue in meaningless sympathy. "The thing is, Tom, special arrangements could have been made for you, but in the current circumstances…" _

"_You mean all these attacks, sir?" I asked carefully. How ironic my predicament was._

"_Precisely, my dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in the light of the recent tragedy… the death of that poor little girl...you will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer to locating the – er – source of all this unpleasantness."_

_Closing the school? _They wouldn't really close Hogwarts, would they?_ I panicked: "Sir, if the person was caught… if it all stopped…"_

_But I'd said too much. Dippet sat up in his chair, staring at me with wide eyes, "What do you mean?" his voice squeaked, "Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?"_

"_No, sir," I dropped my gaze._

"_You may go, Tom…"_

_I didn't want to stop. I liked the fear which suffused Hogwarts' corridors, lingering in everyone's minds, not knowing who would be next. In truth, it wasn't killing mudbloods that mattered to me, as much as the power – though of course I would abide by my noble ancestor's dictums. For years I had been sent back to London whilst my schoolfellows went home safe to their magical parents, protected, almost oblivious to the muggle war carried out under their noses. But Slytherin's basilisk changed that: now they knew fear. With that Ravenclaw girl's death, I was protected from her fate, from the Other Tom's fate. The diary which had survived Vauxhall Road with me would ensure my survival. It had already shared my blood, now it shared my soul._

_I bit my lip: I couldn't let the Ministry shut down the school. Hogwarts was my home, the legacy of my ancestor. I refused to leave before reaching the end of my seven allotted years. Yet the emerald eyes of the stone serpents which guarded the Chamber came to my mind, those glittering jewels silently accusing me of weakness. I stood, indecisive, outside the Headmaster's Office, under the shadow of the gargoyle. I badly wanted the terror to continue – it was the most wonderful sensation I had ever known. That power which swept all else aside – to know yourself to be the fear that kept others awake, without even a siren to warn them of your approach. But Lord Voldemort could wait. I had my Horcrux diary, as long as it was safe, I was immortal. I had tasted my destiny…_

_Now all I needed was someone to take the blame…_

**L.V.H.G**

There are voices around me: hushed, frightened voices. And still that eerie chill on the air_. "D-did you hear about Mary Cattermole? They say she took down ten aurors when they came for her…" _

"_I would never have signed the register if I'd known this would happen…"_

"_You're g-going to be f-f-fine, honey. When they call your name, just go in there and t-tell the truth: your Aunt Marta's a witch, and I'll vouch for you…"_

I'm lying on a low wooden bench, in a grim stone corridor and I can see the Dementors sightlessly observing me, but the creatures keep their distance. My wand is gone. And _hair_ falls across my face, tickling my _nose…?-! _

I open my eyes and examine myself. My black robes drape across my small form like a blanket. I grasp a length of my hair and hold it in front of my eyes: thick, curly, brown hair. Hermione's hair. Somehow, I have become Hermione. It's not the craziest thing which has happened so far, but it's _certainly_ the most disconcerting. I evaluate my surroundings: a familiar figure is propped against the wall beside me, her eyes shut. So, I have not _become _Hermione, only a copy of her. I put my – her – fingers to her cheek but she doesn't wake.

I assume this was done to protect me from being recognised as Lord Voldemort. I wiggle the fingers in my left hand, letting the magic build up – tingling. If we are to have a reasonable cover story, it will be easier if I am not wearing a distinctive black robe far too big for me… I focus on what I thought a girl would wear: a pleated black skirt, stockings, a blouse, and shoes. I couldn't help but think of things I thought would suit Hermione. One of the others notices I am awake just as I was tying my new bushy hair up with a ribbon.

"Are you alright?" a pale-faced, middle-aged man whispers to me. "Neither of you would wake up earlier. We were worried you'd been hurt."

"I don't know…" It is disconcerting, Hermione's voice issuing from my throat. "I think we were both knocked out. Where are we, sir? Where are our wands?"

A tall, blond-haired woman, who has been observing our conversation, sits down beside us - shivering. "W-we're in the Ministry of Magic – they've taken our wands. I c-can't believe they'd arrest _children_ like you two." She gazes sadly at Hermione and me. "W-what are your names, you and your sister?" Everything was hushed, and her head kept twitching as she glanced behind her at the Dementors. _They're guarding us_, I realise.

"I'm…" my mother's name swims into my head "…Merope Granger… she's Hermione…"

"This is very important, Merope," the man tells me, his voice trembling with urgency. "Try to think if you have any wizarding relatives. _Anyone._ Even a great-great-great grandparent… if they ask you, say that–"

But the whispers hush as a smiling, dumpy woman clutching a clipboard and wearing a garish pink robe enters the corridor, flanked by a tall, blunt-faced man in a grandly embroidered black cloak. A luminous silver cat – reminiscent of the stag that had visited Hermione – runs ahead of them, making the Dementors back away just as much as those seated on the benches. "Hermione," I shake her shoulder, "Hermione, _wake up_…"

The pink-clad woman halts in her click-clacking high-heels, staring fixedly at me, before turning swiftly to her companion. "I wasn't informed that the Ministry had apprehended an Undesirable." Her thin voice has a revoltingly saccharine quality to it as she looks expectantly up at the man, batting her eyelashes as she waits for an explanation. There is a large velvet bow perched in her short, curly hair. I find her rather repulsive.

"Nor was I, Madam Undersecretary," the man replies gruffly, his lip curling malignantly as he stares at me and Hermione. He makes a gesture with his wand just as I manage to get Hermione awake. Her brown eyes blink at me anxiously. I give her a determined nod: _we will get out of this place. _As she opens her mouth, her words turn into a scream as two Dementors grasp her upper-arms with their rotten, scabby digits, forcing Hermione to her feet. Another two snatch my arms, but I find myself curiously unaffected by their awful aura. I accept the arctic desolation and it passes right through me, serving only to steel my resolve. Nor do I find myself fainting as I did when I was a child, or when they came for us before. "_Loosen your grip_," I hiss imperiously at them, bringing power into my words as I remembered from my vision. To my surprise, the strength in those decaying hands lessens.

Hermione and I are dragged down the corridor and up some stairs into a golden lift. I keep my face neutral, observing our surroundings, awaiting a moment where we might escape. The man and woman get into the lift with us as the gold grille snaps shut, and the lift travels upward. I catch the eye of the woman – an undersecretary – and she stares back at me, her protuberant blue eyes glassy with cold triumph. "_Hem hem_…" she cleared her throat as she looked away, her false cough turning into a breathy, girlish giggle.

**L.V.H.G**

I find it hard to concentrate with the freezing fingers of the Dementors curled around my arms and it's a relief to tumble out of their deathly grip into a soft chair, Voldemort beside me. It's disturbing to have my own face staring back at me with such a cold expression. I can see why Harry reacted the way he did at Privet Drive when we all started turning into him. Yet somehow, although the Dark Lord has taken my Polyjuice Potion, he's utterly dissimilar; wearing clothes that look like they've come straight out of an illustration from an Enid Blyton or C. S. Lewis book. He's tied my bushy hair primly back with a white ribbon. He looks younger than my eighteen years, the way Lavender Brown always looked younger because of the silly clothes she wore. He levels my brown eyes at Umbridge, their depths infinitely cold and calculating. His chilly, tight-lipped expression doesn't belong to me at all. Somehow, the effect is even more terrifying than his usual visage. _That's what I would look like if I were… like him. _

"Wait outside, please." Umbridge instructs the horrible figures. I'm keenly aware of the brutish man standing behind us, wand drawn.

We're in what could only be Delores Umbridge's office. Lace draperies, doilies and dried flowers cover every available surface. The walls are covered with the same ornamental plates I remember from her office in Hogwarts; all decorated with mewling, beribboned kittens. Pinned up among the kittens is a large poster of Harry bearing the words _UNDESIRABLE NO.1 _across his chest, and someone has stuck a little pink note to the corner of the poster with '_To be punished,'_ written across it in the same overly curly handwriting I remember from my Defence against the Dark Arts essays.

Voldemort and I sit in squishy pink seats in front of a large desk, over which is spread a flouncy floral cloth. Umbridge lowers herself into her chair with exactly the same awful, toad-like smile on her face I remember from fifth year. But then I see it – right there around her squat neck – a golden locket just like the one Harry brought back from the cave, the emerald _'S'_ of Slytherin glittering in the light. _The Horcrux?_

There's a fast knock on the door and a grey-haired witch enters, places a box on the floral tablecloth, and scurries out without a word, whilst Umbridge continues to gaze at us. "Miss Hermione Granger," Umbridge finally coos sweetly "and…?" she turns to Voldemort.

"Merope Granger," Voldemort supplies almost lazily.

"I don't remember seeing you at Hogwarts, dear." The bulging eyes narrow.

"Merope was expelled in fourth year," I invent wildly, my heart thudding loudly in my chest, "f-for grievous misuse of school property and endangering the lives of other students." It's one way of describing the Chamber of Secrets.

"So your sister shares your nasty, disobedient nature, Miss Granger." Umbridge sniffs, but the anticipatory smile on her broad, flabby face only grew wider. "Doubtless it is the filthy muggle blood you both share." She leans forward and takes my wand out of the box on her desk, her voice light and simpering, as if she were only going to give us a little slap on the wrist for our bad behaviour. "Now, do you admit that, when you were taken into custardy, this wand was found on your person, Miss Granger?" She pauses to read a label tied to it, "Ten and three quarter inches, vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core?"

I stare at her, confused. I don't understand why she's asking me about my wand, of all things! "Yes," I answer warily, "that's my wand."

"And what about _you_, Miss Merope Granger?" Umbridge puts mine back and lifts Voldemort's wand out of the box, examining the label. "Thirteen and a half inches, yew, and a phoenix feather core?" The man behind us begins to pace, I dare not turn my head.

"Yes." Voldemort answers quietly.

"If you could both please tell me the names of the witches or wizards from whom you stole these wands?" Umbridge asks brightly. I don't know what to say. What she's asking makes no sense.

"Tom Riddle," Voldemort answers almost immediately, with an overly girly tone and chilly smile to match Umbridge's own. This seems to throw Umbridge off balance, as if she did not expect either of us to confess and from the way her eyes bulge and her nostrils flare, I can see she believes 'Merope' is mocking her.

"Well… it's refreshing to find a mudblood who will willingly confess to her crimes!" Umbridge swells pompously, dropping the wand back in the box and shutting it with a _click_. But I can see in the way Voldemort's eyes track the movements of the wand that he isn't listening to her. "And you?"

"Um…" I don't know whether to name someone or defend my ownership. I can hear the man behind me sniggering. "I... I…"

"You refuse to follow your sister's example and admit your guilt?" Umbridge raises her own wand. "What a horrible,_ lying_ little girl you are, Hermione Granger… And do you know what _happens_ to naughty mudblood girls?" Umbridge's breathy voice squeaks in excitement, her speech and greedy expression a sickening reminder of the wizard who'd licked my face. Somehow, I know what she's going to say. "… They get _punished_. Yes. _Yes_… I think you shall both receive the Dementor's Kiss."

She pauses for effect and leans forward, her toad-like mouth stretched wide in a conspiratorial smile. "Unless… unless either of you can tell me the whereabouts of Harry James Potter?" Her round eyes flick to the poster on the wall and back to us. I lock gazes with Voldemort, since neither of us knows where Harry is. I realise with a start that the Polyjuice Potion is beginning to wear off: On him, my face has grown very pale and there is a slight reddish tinge in the hazel eyes. I stare at him in mounting horror. "_You don't know?_ Perhaps – _hem hem_ – a little Cruciatus will help the process along! Yaxley, if you would?"

The curse burns into me, as if every cell in my body were on fire. I fall off my chair, screaming, as Umbridge lets out a high-pitched giggle. I can do nothing but scream, the agony twists into me like hundreds of scalding hot knives as a blur of moment launches itself into the air, arcing above me –

The pain stops. The room is alive with a rush of magic and someone_ else_ lets out an abrupt, gargling screech. I roll over on the pink carpet and freeze.

Voldemort has cut Yaxley's head off.

_Lord Voldemort has_… _cut… Yaxley's… head… off. _Thick, crimson liquid is pooling toward me across the floor. The ornamental kittens are all crying and spattered with red. Standing over the man's headless body, drenched in blood, is a girl who looks nothing like me. Her hair – which has come out of its ribbon and now hangs loose around her shoulders – is beginning to fall out. Her glowing red eyes seem to be the only stable part of a face which is melting away like heated wax. It… it must have been a non-verbal slicing hex because there's no implement in those dripping, scarlet hands. _"Give me my wand,"_ the demon-girl demands in a merciless, clear tone. Yaxley's sightless eyes are staring at me, his mouth still open; the severed head resting against a filing cabinet.

"G-g-get _away_ from me, you filthy creature! Help! _Help!"_ Umbridge squeaks in terror, her wand pointed at Voldemort's chest. She opens her mouth to curse Voldemort, but he claws the air viciously with his left hand – the warped, blood-spattered face grinning with demented joy – and Umbridge's wand falls from her trembling hand. No one comes to help. Maybe they are only too used to cries for help coming from Umbridge's office.

The laughter is straight out of nightmare: high and unnatural, going up and down in madly cacophonic trills. The Hermione-Voldemort demon gestures again with its fingers and the box on Umbridge's desk clicks open and a wand sails out of it into the waiting hand. Under the desk, I close my eyes against the brilliant green flash that fills the room, hugging myself, shaking.

Comforting fingers alight on my shoulders and I'm pulled tight against silky black robes. There's no trace left of Merope Granger or her strange clothes. Lord Voldemort lifts me to my feet and passes me my wand and my beaded bag, taken from the box on the desk. The blood is gone from his long, stainless, white fingers. "It's all right…" he hisses softly, one hand tilting my chin upward, "they're dead. They won't hurt you any longer." His smooth, almost porcelain face has a graceful, alien beauty to it, undisturbed by his actions - like some drug-induced vision of a creature from another universe, unnatural in its incomprehension of morality. His right hand moves to stroke my hair fondly, as he waves his wand to vanish the evidence of the carnage around us. It's just so efficient: Yaxley and Umbridge disappear as though they had never existed. The pink office is a tidy, empty place. I want to push him away, this… this man who can effortlessly destroy without conscience – who has no idea of what he's just done. The speed at which he can end lives is truly frightening.

**L.V.H.G**

Hermione cannot stop trembling, still affected by the torture inflicted on her. I gather her close, murmuring words of comfort, enjoying her warmth after the chill touch of the Dementors; the lovely smell of her hair. "You're _safe_, Hermione," I insist, trying to get her to stop shaking. "No one will hurt you. I will kill anyone who dares to lay a finger on you." I mirror a gesture I saw in Harry Potter's mind, putting an arm around her shoulders. _Soon she will forget all about her former friends._ I want to impress upon her my capacity to care for her, my capacity to understand, to _empathise_.

"You cut his head off…" she says in a very small, quivering voice.

"Yes," I smile down at her encouragingly, trying to lower my harsh, high-pitched voice to a warmer tone, "_exactly_."

"I can't believe you just… his h-head…" her voice trails off, shocked.

"We promised to protect each other." I give her a companionable pat on the head, glad that she seems to have changed her mind about murder. There's no time for her thanks, however, we need to leave. As I turn away from Hermione, I notice a glimmer on the floor behind the pink woman's desk: her necklace, I stoop to pick it up. The green gemstones wink at me, and I find myself momentarily arrested by their beauty, reminded of the emerald eyes from my vision. "Here," I slip it over Hermione's head, "you should have it. It suits you far better than it ever did her." Hermione shakes her head wordlessly, overwhelmed, and I take her hand. "We should leave this place before we get caught again." I try to apparate, but it's the same as in the garage, like something impossibly heavy is forcing me back.

I bite the inside of my mouth_. There ought to be a way to break through the barrier, perhaps if I focus on destroying the block rather than my destination?_ I close my eyes and move my wand intuitively; slicing into the invisible magic like I did the man's neck just now. I can feel its strength, resisting my efforts. It's tenacious, this magic, but I am determined to break it. Eventually, the spell becomes thin and brittle, like elastic stretched far too wide, and I feel that one more determined effort will shatter it altogether…

"We have to rescue the other Muggle-borns." Hermione breaks my concentration. I sigh and turn around. "They need help," her honey-coloured eyes have gone from misty to harsh, her pretty mouth set in the familiar frown, "Help that _doesn't _involve anyone else dying." _Normal people don't enjoy mass murder…_Hermione's gratitude seems to have quite evaporated. Her distaste for death apparently vanishes only when she herself is in danger. Her hypocrisy irritates me beyond measure, but I contain my ire.

I don't ask her_ why_ this time, the questions are already in the air between us, unspoken, hers and mine. But there is no clash of wills. She has this urge to aid others, including me. I so badly wish to isolate that urge, to have it all to myself. The mudbloods are nothing to me, but Hermione's crackling gaze… that… that is something. _My faithful Hermione._ "Fine. I wonder…?" I move my wand across her hair, causing its colour to falter, her locks flickering transparent. "Yes," I take her hand and swish my wand downward as Hermione and I become completely invisible.

She gasps "This is…!" she clutches my hand gratifyingly tight, but then her voice levels out, floating somewhere beside me. "We need back to get down to Level Ten where the courtrooms are. And we need a plan to get everyone out."

"I believe I have almost broken the barrier halting apparition. It should be relatively simple to get to the courtrooms and escape with that gone."

"Wait, _what?_ You can't just _break through_ the _Ministry of Magic's_ anti-apparition jinx!" I smile, although she cannot see it, and bring my wand down diagonally. It's like throwing yourself at a crumbling wall: there's the crack and pain of the impact, but the wall collapses beneath you. We appear at the end of the stone corridor, into the freezing influence of the Dementors. I flick my wrist and Hermione is visible again.

She stumbles, but picks herself up, waving her own wand authoritatively, running toward the oppressed individuals seated on the narrow wooden benches.

I step back, still invisible, but I know the creatures are aware of my presence. The miasma of sorrow they radiate is becoming easier and easier to ignore. I believe I have realised what draws them to attack. They are attracted to positive emotions, which is why they attacked me when I was a child, and when Hermione defended me. I accept their chill and make it my own, colder than the breath of any Dementor. _I am Lord Voldemort, _I direct my magic toward them, _I am Lord Voldemort and you will obey me! _Their sightless heads snap toward me and they still, expectant, their wispy grey-black cloaks moving through the dark hallway as if underwater. It occurs to me just how powerful an army of such creatures would be. _Leave them be! _They let out eerie warbles, making a few people scream, before gliding back down the corridor, away from us.

Galvanised by Hermione and freed from their ghastly custodians, the Muggle-borns or mudbloods – whatever one calls them – and their families begin to disappear, those with wands clutching those without. The corridor quickly empties, leaving Hermione and I alone with the Dementors I have forced to the far end of the tunnel. But, just I prepare to make myself visible, there is the ding of the golden lift and two wizards rush out: a large, dark-haired man with a long, full beard and a smaller, balding man with watery eyes. The smaller one threw himself at Hermione, kissing her cheeks, "Hermione! It's me, Ron! What are you doing here? We're looking for Umbridge, she–" The wizard, clearly the red-headed boy in disguise, breaks off the embrace, staring at the locket around Hermione's neck, mouth gaping, "How did you find the Horcrux?"

"Where's Voldemort?" The bearded one asks abruptly – Harry Potter.

"You can't say the name!" Hermione squeaks, "There's a Taboo!" She turns around anxiously, perhaps looking for me. I make no movement, watching her with them.

"We know," Ron Weasley explains quickly, "we found out the hard way. But it's not in effect in the Ministry itself, Lupin overheard–"

"_Where is Voldemort?"_ Harry Potter repeats with more force, in the deep, booming voice of the bearded wizard.

"I…" her eyes continue to search me out, "I… _I don't know_, he… we… he was… right here… Oh, _Harry_!"

"You let him _escape_?-!"

"He's got his_ wand_, I can't just… you don't understand!" She appears as if she might burst into tears. And _this _is the boy she was weeping over?

"Give me the locket, Hermione."

…_How did you find the Horcrux?_

_...I had my Horcrux diary, as long as it was safe, I was immortal… _

…_The diary which had survived Vauxhall Road with me would ensure my survival. It had already shared my blood, now it shared my soul... _

…_You are immortal, my lord, your soul split into seven, your body remade by magic…_

…_No__! You don't understand! He__can't__die! Not yet. Wait until Harry gets here. He'll tell you…_

Oh. I see. _Six_ _Horcruxes._ Hermione has been betraying me all along. Strangely, I feel no rage, but an icy burn rises in my chest. The grim corridor fills once more with cold horror as the Dementors I have been controlling fly toward the three conspirators, their corpse-like hands outstretched, their black maws greedy; the instruments of my vengeance. Clutching his forehead, as if in extreme pain, Harry Potter bellows "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" and the silver stag which issues from his wand dazzles the darkness, causing the Dementors to fall back, shrieking in pain.

Hermione is running up the corridor with the other boy, unknowingly toward me, and I reach out with my right hand and grab her by the scruff of the neck. _"Not so fast…"_ I whisper in her ear and we disapparate.

**L.V.H.G**

I hit the grass, screaming. Perkins' tent is still there, protected by my charms from the Ministry thugs who'd captured us. Lord Voldemort is holding my wand in his right hand. His own wand cuts ruthlessly through the air making the world around the tent disappear into a pitiless black void. The red eyes are unfathomable, livid scarlet holes in a deathly white skull. He bites down on his scant lip, and a little blood leaks down his chin. "Give me a reason not to kill you." He says slowly, simply, _devastatingly _as he walks over to tower above me. "How gullible I was…" his voice is deadly quiet, "how _pathetic_ – _No longer…"_ He winds his long fingers into my hair and drags me inside the tent, impervious to my cries.

* * *

_Next Chapter: Voldemort confronts Hermione and discovers more about his Horcruxes…_


	10. The Girl on the Bathroom Floor

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The tenth chapter of the rewrite. There are quotes from The _Tales of Beadle the Bard_, _Chamber of Secrets _and _Half-Blood Prince_ in this chapter. I hope you all enjoy the confrontation scene. We're finally getting into the swing of things in this chapter, which is probably why it's just_ poured_ out me so fast! Let's just say I've been waiting a long time to pull out some Lovecraftian adjectives. I could have posted this the day before _yesterday_ if the story editor hadn't chosen to start sending me error messages! Grrr!

An issue with the Basilisk: well, in the novel, Harry hears the Basilisk complaining about being really hungry. But the only person it ever killed was Myrtle. In the film we see Myrtle's body covered with a sheet, her hand sticking out. Well, my point is, didn't the Basilisk, you know, _eat_ Myrtle? In fact, why didn't the Basilisk just eat the petrified people if it was_ that_ hungry? Do they not taste nice? Or maybe it was just senile and weak from starvation…

Anyway, the Horcrux wiki states that the Horcruxes were destroyed in the order which they had been created and the Myrtle was killed for the first Horcrux. During _The Half-Blood Prince _we discover that a) Riddle was wearing Morfin's ring when he asked Slughorn about Horcruxes and b) Dumbledore believes that Hepzibah Smith was the next person Tom Riddle killed since his family. So Myrtle _had _to have been killed before Riddle. Therefore, Tom Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets in 1942, when he was fifteen, and continued into 1943 after his sixteenth birthday in December; Myrtle was killed in early June, just before the end of the school year when Tom asks to stay at Hogwarts during the summer, but is refused, and he kills the Riddles in the summer holidays (which is interesting, no?). This means when Tom asks Slughorn about Horcruxes – in what must be his sixth year – he has two already under his belt, which doesn't make too much sense, really, and certainly doesn't explain Tom's euphoria at the end of the scene when Slughorn tells him nothing he doesn't already know. So, in my version, Tom asks Slughorn about Horcruxes_ before_ going home for the holidays in 1943 and so doesn't have the ring.

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, all your speculations about Hermione's fate prompted me to get this one written down as fast as I could! _

**Chapter Ten: The Girl on the Bathroom Floor**

It's dark and shadowed inside the tent – the lamps have gone out. Voldemort flings me onto the rug as he strides off into his room. Crouching on the floor, I dare not make a sound, dare not move. I've seen him kill effortlessly and I know now that that deadly impulse is on a hair trigger. One word wrong and I could be dead. The tent thrums with violent magic waiting to be unleashed, the air charged like the prelude to a thunderstorm. I can see the Dark Lord, framed through the half-open door. His white fingers snatch up a glass bottle from beside his bunk and he tips his head back and drains its entire contents. I flinch as he slams it down on the dresser, before picking up a second bottle and draining that too. He sets the second bottle down gently beside the first, as if the pressure of his long fingers might shatter its fragile glass. Voldemort exhales: a sad, prolonged, almost-sigh. And finally, inevitably, turns back to me.

I'm in the eye of the storm; I can feel it, the terrible calm in the centre of a hurricane. He stands in the doorway, towering above me, the cat-like pupils of his red eyes more dilated than I have ever seen them, almost wide enough to appear normal if you didn't look too close. Then he walks past me, slowly, seating himself in an armchair and a bony index finger points very deliberately to the seat opposite. His eyelids droop as if falling asleep but his left hand is wrapped rigidly around his yew wand. His bottom lip is dark with dried blood. _He's taken all the Calming Draught I gave him,_ it dawns on me,_ enough Calming Draught_ _to knock out a troll. He doesn't want to lose control and have another vision. _

It's like being back in Arthur Weasley's garage: alone in the darkness with that strange, waxen-faced creature staring at me fixedly. But now_ I'm_ the one with no wand and no idea what will happen. The livid, hypnotic eyes give nothing away. I realise that I haven't been learning how to read his expressions at all: he's been _showing_ me more. The serpentine exterior I've been trying to see past is suddenly all I can see, a snake waiting to strike_. I'm going to die._ The only sound I can hear is our breathing.

"Why do you deserve to live?" he asks me again, softly.

"I…" I cast about madly for the right answer. "I…"

Silence. He watches me with that terrible blank expression, frozen as if his flat face were carved from ivory.

"I never broke my promise! I promised to aid you to the best of my ability and I have!" It comes out of my mouth in a half-hysterical rush.

No reaction.

"I've told you before: I lied to _Harry and Ron_, not _you_. They don't know about the vow I took or… or anything about…" I wave my hands helplessly at our surroundings, "… _this!_ I couldn't keep you _contained_ if I tried! We both know that!"

The cold features are unmoving, but Voldemort's ruby eyes have a dangerous glitter_. I'm saying the wrong things. What does he want me to say? What does he think I've done? _"If this is about Ron k-kissing me, you're being ridiculous, because I-!"

"_Hermione..."_ His word startles me, making me shrink back, his high voice absolutely calm. "My patience is wearing thin." His wand twitches in his left hand. I'm suddenly aware of an odd tapping noise, like the beating of a tiny, metal heart. I look down. Slytherin's locket is reaching toward its true owner. Slitted red eyes fix on the striving locket and Voldemort puts my wand into his pocket and extends a hand, almost as if afraid of the necklace. I hold my breath. His pale hand looks faintly blue in the dimness as it closes around the golden locket. Nothing happens. Lord Voldemort tilts his head, staring at the object clutched in his right hand. The livid eyes close for a few long seconds, as though affected by its touch. Then the predatory gaze is once again fixed on me and I scream as he suddenly yanks his hand backward, pulling me out of my chair by the neck, onto the book-laden coffee table, scattering tomes everywhere. I thrash, choking, trying desperately to escape the golden noose.

The cold voice is right next to my ear, intimate, making me go still with fear: "I'm going to kill you now, Hermione Granger…" He pulls away and his wand brushes almost tenderly through my hair. Tears are streaming down my face. _I'm sorry Harry. Ron… I'm sorry… There's nothing more I can do. _The cruel eyes regard me coldly, far above. _You idiotic know-it-all, _a voice which sounds very much like Professor Snape echoes through my mind, _you really thought you could change the Dark Lord? _There's no mercy in those crimson eyes, no trace of the shattered man who'd begged me to stay with him forever, the broken thing I'd seen on the floor of the Riddle House. I should have headed the warning Professor Dumbledore left me. The Headmaster's sad voice joins Professor Snape's: _The maiden in the story dies, Miss Granger. It is beyond help._

_No! I refuse to accept this! _"S-stop!" I splutter weakly, "_Please!_ I'll tell you… I'll tell you everything… _please_!"

Voldemort's glaring eyes narrow, but he lets go of the locket. I curl up on the table, gulping air into my lungs. He sits back down in his armchair, regarding me with cool disdain. "Speak."

"You asked me…" I draw deep breaths, bright spots drifting across my vision, "You asked me if I knew what caused your transformation…"

**L.V.H.G**

I lean forward, curious despite myself. An answer to the question which had so preoccupied me was worth letting her live a few minutes more. "Yes?"

She clutches the locket in a shaking hand, "This… t-this did. You split your soul… Tore it apart and hid it in objects like this one, so no one could kill you. And… and each time you did it a p-piece of your humanity got ripped away. It's why you survived when your curse backfired on you when you tried to kill Harry and it's why you look like a monster… You broke one of the Fundamental Laws of Magic…" I can see she's struggling to fight down sobs, "Before you showed up in my bedroom, I was going to obliviate my parents… so they wouldn't remember me. They w-were going to move to Australia to be safe… I h-had it all… all planned… because of you. You don't understand who you are. You're the most feared wizard who ever lived... the Dark Lord… everyone refers to you as You-Know-Who because they're afraid that if they even speak your name something terrible will happen. When the Burrow was attacked by the Ministry, it was because your servants had taken it over… They're not hunting _you_ any more: they're hunting _me_ and my friends. You're now the _de facto_ ruler of magical Britain. And my friends are trying to hunt down and destroy the objects which contain pieces of your soul, so that they can kill you. So you'll stop killing people… And I thought… I thought if I agreed to help you, I could learn… where you've hidden the rest of your Horcruxes…" The tears finally spill down her cheeks as I stare at her numbly. "But all I've learnt is… is that I don't want anyone to die, not even you…" It is too many answers all at once. "I thought I could change you… if… if you didn't regain the rest of your memories maybe I could stop you from… from wanting to…" She breaks off, overcome; sprawled across the table in a heap, bawling into her mess of hair.

_My love, you are the most powerful, and the most feared, wizard in Europe – or so you have told me, and I have seen enough to believe your words. _I had been too distracted to heed Nagini's words, thinking of myself as a fugitive rather than a lord. I hadn't given the servants she'd mentioned much thought. I'd thought of them like a cell of magical terrorists, hunted by the Ministry of Magic and the vigilante group to which Hermione belonged. _The ruler of magical Britain? _I'd been applying completely the wrong scale to the situation I'd found myself in. I can't say it's an unpleasant development, but it makes me wary, horribly concious of my lack of knowledge.

The haze the Calming Draught exerts over my senses gives me little idea of how to proceed. Hermione Granger _had_ been intending to betray me… but she changed her mind. Her actions had been motivated by… by _altruism_? I'm standing over her, staring at her shivering body. _Her fear… _I don't regret my actions – it is her fault for deceiving me. But I do wish… I do wish it had not come to this. I am suddenly conscious of the fact that I have not slept for a very long time. In this state of weariness, I can very well believe myself to be a septuagenarian. Hermione's quiet whimpering draws me in and I move toward her as if in a dream. _Should I still kill her for her lies? _

It would be a waste, I think_. _Perhaps… _perhaps Hermione could still be the Hermione I wanted? _My memories come to me: nightmarish, horrifying memories; memories with no one who would lay down their life for me out of anything but fear, no one who wished me to succeed… where I could depend on no one but myself. But Hermione had stepped in front of me, tried to shield me from the Dementors, just as she had protected me from Alastor Moody and Harry Potter. It was the same choice I had on the road to my father's house… and I found myself reaching the same conclusion: Hermione Granger deserved another chance to prove her loyalty to me. If anyone in the world deserved my mercy, she did. The girl deserved to live. I... I don't want her to die. To my surprise, a string of golden light flickers around my left hand, as though my magic were confirming my decision_; my magic_… the magic which had brought me to Hermione in the first place. _Yes, _the shimmering glow told me_, she has kept her promise_.

I bend down over the spent, whimpering girl, smoothing back the bushy hair to reveal her wet face. "Very well…" I whisper. "I believe you. Traitorous though your motivations were… you were faithful to the vow you made to me." Her mouth drops open in shock – this is clearly not what she expected to hear. "And, as long as this is so, you - Hermione Granger – shall live. You have Lord Voldemort's word." My magic leaps, almost eagerly, once more around my left wrist. Hermione jumps when she hears the name. We both fall silent, listening, but there are no sounds coming from outside the tent. In that moment I had quite forgotten about the Taboo, but either my protective spells are strong enough to allow me to use my name with impunity, or I am immune to the ritual's effects, as Hermione had theorised. I find I do not care – it is empowering to use my name, to affirm the identity I had lost. _Lord Voldemort, the ruler of magical Britain…_

Hermione's face breaks into a sad grin that is in no way a smile, but a tight, exhausted rictus – a symptom of weary relief rather than pleasure. _What will make her trust my decision? _I pull her wand out from my pocket and offer it to her, handle first as if I were surrendering a sword. She takes it tentatively, clearly wary. "I'm…" she says at last, sitting up and wiping her nose, avoiding my eyes, "I'm… g-going to go and h-have a shower, if that's a-all right...?"

I have a brief image of her naked shape, surrounded by water, her hair slicked back and the scent of strawberries drifting on the steam. _If only she had not lied!_ I will have to begin again with her from scratch. I reach for the locket, still around her neck, and then stop, deciding to leave it with her. There could be no greater expression of trust. I nod stiffly, stepping aside. "I will see you in the morning and we shall talk further when we have both… recovered." I retreat to my own room, trying to weave together all that Hermione has told me. I do not want to sleep, but I find myself collapsing onto my bunk in any case, chancing remembrances in exchange for rest…

**L.V.H.G**

I let the water run and run, streaming over me. If this were a muggle shower, I'm sure I would have run out of hot water long ago. I had told Voldemort everything I'd been trying to hide from him. The only thing I hadn't told him were my suspicions about Harry, but I'm not ready to acknowledge that myself yet, not until I had proof. More than anything, the feel of the heat against my skin is proof that I'm still alive. I hug myself, squeezing my upper-arms, longing to bury myself in the embraces of my parents.

_I can't stand it!_ I can't stand living on this knife's edge with a psychopath who is one moment proclaiming his care and threatening me with death in the next. I have no guide, no book which can help me. The only text provided is Dumbledore's ridiculous bequest. I'd read the stupid story so many times I could recite it:

'…_The touch of her soft, white arms, the sound of her breath in his ear, the scent of her heavy gold hair: all pierced the newly awakened heart like spears. But it had grown strange during its long exile, blind and savage in the darkness to which it had been condemned and its appetites had grown powerful and perverse._

_The guests at the feast had noticed the absence of their host and the maiden. At first untroubled, they grew anxious as the hours passed, and finally began to search the castle._

_They found the dungeon at last, and a most dreadful sight awaited them there._

_The maiden lay dead upon the floor, her breast cut open, and beside her crouched the mad warlock, holding in one bloody hand a great, smooth, shining scarlet heart, which he licked and stroked, vowing to exchange it for his own. _

_In his other hand, he held his wand, trying to coax from his chest the shrivelled, hairy heart. But the hairy heart was stronger than he was and refused to relinquish its hold upon his senses or return to the coffin in which it had been locked for so long._

_Before the horror-struck eyes of his guests, the warlock cast aside his wand and seized a silver dagger. Vowing never to be mastered by his own heart, he hacked it from his chest._

_For one moment the warlock knelt triumphant, with a heart clutched in each hand; then he fell across the maiden's body and died.'_

_That i_s the message Albus Dumbledore left for me, unless I'm completely missing the point. The warlock kills himself and the maiden in his denial of humanity.

I lean against the wall of the shower. _I am alive! _It's giddy, primal relief. My warlock spared me and as long as I keep my promise, he will continue to do so. I have bought Harry's life and my own. Tom Riddle should have been on tranquillisers long ago. But the thought of going on, of continuing to have to live with Voldemort – that terrifying wizard who power is matched only by his unpredictability, scares me. I try to think of one glimmer of hope in the story Professor Dumbledore had given me. _The hairy heart was stronger than he was and refused to relinquish its hold upon his senses or return to the coffin in which it had been locked for so long… _Maybe, even if Voldemort remembers everything, he will be unable to put aside the all too human needs his amnesia had unlocked? _What am I doing? Looking for guidance in a story for children! _And what did it mean that I had started to identify myself as the maiden to Voldemort's warlock? I feel so alone... I want my friends... I want my parents...

I peek out the crack in the shower curtain at the golden locket lying on the side of the basin. Voldemort let me keep it. It looks out of place there – gold and emeralds – next to my plastic hairbrush and tube of toothpaste. _Now that I have the Horcrux, I can't destroy it even if I had the means to do so. _I close my eyes, letting the water flow on, and try not to think about tomorrow.

**L.V.H.G**

…_The twin serpents untwisted at my command, their emerald eyes seeming to glitter with pleasure at the presence of Slytherin's heir, opening the doorway to what must surely be the Chamber of Secrets. I would be the first wizard to set foot inside it since Salazar Slytherin himself! The wall broke smoothly apart and I held my wand aloft, trying to peer within. _

_Towering stone pillars were visible in the dim, greenish light, around which stone snakes curled upward toward a ceiling lost in darkness. My footsteps echoed loudly off the shadowy walls – the floor was smeared with murky water, supporting my suspicions that the chamber lay deep beneath the lake, much further beyond Hogwarts' dungeons. At the end of the columns was a colossal sculpture of Slytherin himself, carved from the same dark stone as the chamber; an ancient and powerful sorcerer in his sweeping robes. "Here I am ancestor…" I whispered hoarsely, overcome with emotion, offering myself to Slytherin, "your Heir… here I am…" The statue said nothing, immobile, continuing to stare down at me impassively. Perhaps Parseltongue might prove more effective? "Great Slytherin, it is I – your Heir – I have come at last." Nothing happened. I felt every bit a foolish, fifteen year-old boy. It was just a statue. _

_Then a strange rumbling began – something was moving up there. Slytherin's mouth slowly grated open as I waited, breathless, for him to speak. But no words came out of his mouth. An enormous bright green serpent was spilling from Slytherin's stone lips, winding down his robes toward the floor – its blunt head turning toward me. And before I knew it, I was gazing directly into the great, lamp-like eyes of a Basilisk. And I did not die. "Master!" it hissed, "Master, you have come!"_

_There were tears in my eyes, yet I was not ashamed of them. My knees went weak as the King of Serpents coiled about me, caressing me with its black tongue. It whispered "Master… Master…" to me and, for the first time in years, I experienced something which could only be described as happiness. "Let us kill, master… let us tear… rip… kill… I have been so hungry… for so long… kill, kill the mudbloods…" I climbed onto its back as it slithered out of the Chamber of Secrets, resting my head against the green scales… _

…Secrets of the Darkest Art_ was very clear about how a Horcrux was created. I stood over the dead girl and immediately began casting the spells. Her worthless life would ensure my immortality. The bathroom door was locked. I clutched the diary very tightly in my right hand as Slytherin's serpent began devouring the girl, her bright muggle blood mixing with the water flooding the bathroom tiles. I began to feel a strange, hot pain, as if something inside me were being pulled apart like a seam of soft fabric. I almost stopped, but I knew that any break in the ritual might prove fatal. My fear drove me onward and I almost screamed as I began to leak strange, luminous strands from my mouth, nose and eyes, flowing down into the book. The diary trembled in my hands. The Basilisk chattered happily, satisfied with its meal while I clutched the book to my chest, gasping, much as I did when I was twelve._

_I wrote in the diary for the rest of the year, confiding my experiences secure in the knowledge that no one could read it as my words were absorbed by the Horcrux. It was rather companionable, having another me to converse with. One day, it would lead others to the chamber, even if I had been temporarily forced to abandon Slytherin's noble purpose. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Albus Dumbledore watching me with a frown from the staff table. I couldn't believe that so much was made of the death of one useless Muggle-born second-year. There was even a ceremony. Armando Dippet gave a speech. I sat through it impassively, penning a satirical commentary to share with my Horcrux. No one could have been more horrified than me when the ghostly girl turned up at her own wake. I was sure her eyes would turn on me, that she would point me out among the crowd of students: that's the boy who killed me! But she never did. The only person she seemed interested in tormenting was Olive Hornby, to my extreme relief..._

… _Professor Slughorn was fingering his glass idly, as the rest of the students left. A wine-mellow smile lingered beneath his large moustache. I would never get a better opportunity to ask him what I needed to know. "Sir, I wanted to ask you something." _

"_Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away…" _

_I took a breath, carefully modulating my voice, "Sir, I wanted to know if you know about… about Horcruxes?" There. The words were out there, hanging between us. The professor stared at me, his small eyes wandering across the face I knew to be handsome and innocently inviting. Thick fingers caressed the stem of his glass and I knew my instincts had not failed me. _

"_Project for Defence Against the Dark Arts, is it?" _

_We both knew perfectly well that Professor Merrythought would never set such a topic. I was not foolish enough to take the excuse he had provided me with. "Not exactly, sir," I said, "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."_

_He nods, "No… well… you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom. That's very Dark stuff… very Dark stuff indeed…"_

_I angled my face in the candlelight, appearing very much the ignorant student asking for guidance, my dark eyes wide, my lips slightly parted: "But you obviously know all about them, sir?" I tripped over my words, carefully layering my flatteries, "I mean, a wizard like you – sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously – I just knew that if anyone could tell me, you could – so I just thought I'd ask –"_

_He looked away, his fingers moving from the stem of his glass to the satin ribbon on the box of confectionary I'd given him, twisting it up and rubbing it between his digits. "Well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course, just so you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul." I wondered whether he was aware his fingers were still tangled up with the ribbons._

"_I don't quite understand how that works though, sir." I glanced at the floor, as if embarrassed for not having understood. As if I didn't have a Horcrux among my possessions in the Slytherin boys' dormitory. I know now the professor is going to tell me, that he has the information I need. I wondered if he would ever acknowledge to himself how attracted to me he really was._

"_Well, you split your soul, you see, and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But… of course… existence in such a form… few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."_

_Naturally, Slughorn would never take such a risk. His crawling cowardice showed in his plump face as he winced at his words. But I… I was not afraid. "How do you split a soul?" I'm almost there, almost at the point when I can ask the question I really want to know._

"_You must understand that that soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."_

_Blah, blah… get to the point. A few more necessary questions to deflect suspicion and I would have my answer. "But how do you do it?"_

"_By an act of evil – the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: he would encase the torn portion –"_

"_Encase? But how –?" I interrupted him, not wanting or needing a lecture on the procedure itself, but trying to appear curious despite my growing impatience._

_The professor shook his head and I realise I may have appeared too eager, too theatrical in my mendacity. I have offended him. "There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know! Do I look like I have tried to do it – do I look like a killer?"_

"_No, sir, of course not," I tried to amend my mistake – to have come so close only to make such a blunder! "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to offend…" Please, I must know… I must know…_

"_Not at all, not at all, not offended," he mumbled stiffly, but I saw the hurt in his eyes. He was more concerned with my opinion of him than the motivations behind my eagerness. Shallow. "It's natural to feel some curiosity about these things… wizards of a certain calibre have always been drawn to that aspect of magic." Dark magic, you mean, professor? _

"_Yes, sir," I agreed. Now, for my question: "What I don't understand, though…" take it slowly, use his word, "just out of_ curiosity_ – I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once?" I paused, as if the query was of no moment to me and I had to stop to consider how to formulate it. "Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces? I mean… for instance… isn't seven the most powerful magical number, wouldn't seven –?"_

"_Merlin's beard, Tom!" Professor Slughorn yelped. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And, in any case… bad enough to divide the soul… but to rip it into seven pieces…" It was possible! Whatever his feeble morals, he had confirmed my theory. It was possible to divide the soul more than once. But he's gazing at me with deep surprise and I can't help but wonder if he's suddenly become suspicious about the Chamber of Secrets incident. "Of course, this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic…"_

"_Yes, sir, of course," I said quickly, suddenly afraid._

_Slughorn seemed to accept this, nodding his head as he shepherded me toward the door. "But all the same, Tom… Keep it quiet, what I've told – that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know… Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it…"_

_Typical Slughorn: more concerned with his own skin than with any suspicions he might have concerning my interest in Horcruxes. I was a student. I could report him the Board of Governors. In truth – when he laid a fat hand on my shoulder, giving it a fond squeeze, his cloying, pineapple scented breath in my ear – I could report him for more than our innocent little chat. "I won't say a word, sir!" I promised, grinning as soon as I turned away, hurrying out the office, unable to resist a small skip of excitement in the corridor… Six Horcruxes! It was possible!_

I awaken to the distant patter of summer rain, the death, the diary, the professor and the serpent eddying in my thoughts. Cold, I retreat further beneath the blankets, closing my eyes. _Where is the diary now, I wonder? _At least I had been granted positive memories, for once… I feel restless; shifting beneath the covers, but have no desire to expose my skin to the cold air. The good memories have given me something else as well, and I reach a hand down to finger it. My thoughts stray to Hermione and my fingers begin to move instinctively:

…_Hermione, her figure exposed… her soft skin made to be touched… her wonderful, wild hair everywhere like a maenad –_ _fierce girl; strawberries, arousal, old books, and wilderness_. _I put my long fingers between her warm thighs, into her wetness, causing her to whimper softly as my other hand winds into her impossible hair… "Yes…" she whispers, "Voldemort, y-yes…"_

…_Voldemort..._

I shudder, my eyes rolling a little before I shut them tight over my fantasy, increasing the movements of my hand. I let Hermione run rampant across my newly vivid memories:_ our bodies twining together under the shadow of Slytherin… Hermione visiting me in the boys' dormitory… a nervous smile on her face as she discards her robes… Hermione and I on Professor Slughorn's desk, the fat teacher lying dead on his plush carpet… _Oh yes! _I move inside her and she cries out again, knocking aside books, unmarked essays and discarded wine glasses… She's mine, now and forever… no one else will touch her… she's given herself to me… my… mine, not Potter's… never Potter's… mine… mine…! _Hermione rushes through me like stars for a few lamentably short seconds and then is gone. My hand is cramping. I splay my fingers out and, shivering, remove the sticky substance clinging to the sheets with a flick of my left wrist, not wanting to touch the wand under my pillow until my hand is clean. I wonder if I have ever wanted anyone like this before, I suppose it does not matter, whoever they might have been they did not seek me out in the jungle of my past. Or perhaps this has never happened before. I would like that – it would make this feeling more unique.

Hermione and I are cautious with each other this morning. She is sitting on the sofa reading and eating toast whilst listening to the radio, when I finish in the bathroom. Carefully ignoring me.

_"Oh my poor heart, where has it gone? It's left me for a spell_…" the woman on the radio croons. Hermione shakes her head at the lyrics and turns a page. _"…And now you've gone and torn it quite apart, I'll thank you to give back my heart!"_

"Good morning," I wish her tentatively, irritated that her lies have resulted in my having to begin again on getting her to trust me. Nevertheless, I take care to make myself amenable. Soon, she will forget what happened.

"…Morning…" it's an awkward sound, as if she isn't quite sure how to fit her lips around it. Hermione shoots the radio an annoyed glance, "Um… I was… waiting for the news at nine…"

"_That was Celestina Warbeck's nineteen-seventy-four hit, _My Poor Heart. _And now for the news…"_

"_You're listening to WWN at nine o'clock… Today the Ministry of Magic issued a further warning to the Wizarding Community to stay on the lookout for Mary Cattermole. Mrs Cattermole, a dangerous Muggle-born, is wanted for the brutal murder of the twelve aurors sent to arrest her in the Muggle village of Little Hangleton… Yesterday, terrorists broke into the Ministry of Magic and murdered two Ministry employees, whose names have not yet been released… Mrs Cattermole is believed to have been involved, along with Hermione Granger, another notorious Muggle-born and a known friend of the fugitive Harry Potter, who is still wanted for questioning about the death of Albus Dumbledore…"_

Hermione waves her wand and the radio clicks off. "I hope she managed to get out of the country with her husband." She shoots me a nervy glance and then looks away. The locket is there, nestled between her breasts. I like the idea that a piece of my soul sits there. It is a sign, perhaps...

"Are you well rested?" I inquire, finding the words come out rather harshly.

_Now_ she meets my eyes, "As well as can be expected," she answers coldly. "What did you dream of?"

"The Chamber of Secrets," I tell her, just as coolly, knowing she asks to deliberately unnerve me. I hate that it's time to think about food. Since I don't have cooking for her as incentive to make anything nice, I might as well eat anything, really. Perhaps I will simply have toasted bread, like her...?

"You almost killed me with that Basilisk, you know," Hermione states in a falsely conversational tone, "in my second year at Hogwarts."

What? "That is impossible," I tell her plainly "you were obviously at the school much later."

"No, your Horcrux diary possessed my friend Ginny, making her open the chamber and release the serpent. I'm a Muggle-born, so…" she gives an easy shrug. I think of the serpent's fangs sinking into the girl's flesh, but now the girl on the floor has bushy chestnut hair.

I know Hermione intended her remarks to wound, but I did not expect such a blow; a _second-year… _Hermione_…_ _my Hermione!_ She had almost never reached me, dead by my own actions. Now her invasion of my visions muddies them, turns them septic… _Hermione's bright blood spilling out across the bathroom tiles… Hermione being swallowed down like dirty rags and cats' meat as I begin the Horcrux ritual, clutching the diary in my hand…_For the first time, I regret my actions. After just coming to terms with the fact that I need Hermione, that killing her is... unacceptable... something in me begins to ache as though a door had suddenly been opened in my spirit. What,_ oh...!_ I draw back as though under attack as something terrible rushes through the opening. It claws into me… and I feel as though I am being turned inside out, pulled up toward an unknowable point with a vicious hook. There isn't enough breath in my lungs to even cry out in pain. I can feel something dripping from my mouth. For a moment, it is as if I am being ripped in twain and another hook joins the first, but first is stronger and it impales me completely, tearing me from the sharp barb of the second hook.

_A child, raw skinned, its squamous arms flailing, a terrible eldritch keening, pain beyond pain… its red eyes_ – I scream, struggling to breathe, my arms are weak, small, I try to move – my skin is being flayed, the cold air drives into it like a thousand needles... _the pain_… blood everywhere_… there is nothing but a wall of agony, of separation, as it pulls me toward it… craving… craving… _I claw back at it, trying to force it to release me, to shut my magic against its terrible grasp, from this merciless, black vacuum of agony as it begins to slowly tear me from my body, a soft noise like the opening of a seam in a stretch of silk… _NO!_

_Please_, it begs soundlessly, its wretched eyes dripping despair, _please, please, please, please…! _And I recognise its long, fragile limbs, awful wounded skin, and its grotesque face – I've seen it reflected back at me in the mind of Peter Pettigrew – a helpless, ghastly fusion between infant and monster… I cease to struggle. The ripping sound ceases and I am falling out and into of blackness, falling with the thing's limbs wrapped tight around me…

**L.V.H.G**

By now, I'm used to seeing Lord Voldemort topple over, but this is different. He's clutching his chest and screaming, _screaming_ as though he will never stop as he crumbles to the floor, his tall body curling into a foetal position. I rush over, trying to locate the source of this inexplicable collapse, unlike any other seizure I've seen before. Blood is gushing from his scarlet eyes like tears – dripping from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth, spreading out across the floor. I rush over to him, bathing my hands in hot blood to try and find a wound, but there is none. Voldemort has lost his voice, chocking on so much blood, his mouth open in a soundless wail as he struggles to breathe. Against my chest, I can feel the pounding metal heart of Slytherin's locket, beating wildly.

Dittany won't help – there's no wound to remedy. "_Accio_ Blood-Replenishing Potion!" I can't even stem the blood flow, if I press my hands down on his face he won't be able to breathe. The heavy bottle flies out of my bag and into my hand and I pour it down Voldemort's throat, but it bubbles back up with the blood. I pour more in and hold his jaw shut, my hand over his mouth. The Dark Lord's limbs cease to thrash and his body goes limp in my arms. I give him another dose of potion, praying he can get enough air through his tiny slitted nostrils.

The blood is moving. It pools around us as if drawn by a strong tide. I scream, clutching Voldemort's body, pulling him away as _something _begins to congeal on the carpet, knitting itself together from the inside: bone, muscle and skin forming out of the glutinous liquid. A toothy maw appears in the mess and greedily swallows down Voldemort's blood as the thing grows larger and larger on its obscene diet.

Its movements are clumsy as it thrashes its over-long limbs helplessly. It makes a pitiful noise, flapping uselessly in the blood that had nourished it. A small, naked child struggling for breath on the floor – it looks as if its skin has been ripped from it, leaving raw flesh open to the air, trying to come toward us and I realise with deep shock that I recognise its desperate red eyes.

I levitate Lord Voldemort into the air and into his room. He's stopped bleeding, but I don't know if he has enough blood in his body to survive. I give him another dose and charm away the red staining almost his entire body. When I'm satisfied he's stable, I walk back into the other room, keeping my distance from the grotesque thing with Lord Voldemort's eyes. It continues to try to shuffle closer to me, but its frail arms cannot shift the weight of its body. I have to swallow down the bile that rises in my throat just looking at it. My instincts scream to flee from it. _Gryffindor, _I steady myself, _Gryffindor, you are a Gryffindor, Hermione, and you can do this. _The thing hisses pitifully at me and I know what it wants. It wants me to pick it up. Disturbingly, it makes the same sad, keening noises I heard Voldemort make when he broke down that night in Little Hangleton. _Hagrid would pick it up. _I think to myself, _Hagrid would say it was beautiful… But Hagrid thinks giant spiders and Blast-Ended Skrewts are cute… _Oh, Merlin's pants!

I grit my teeth – _Gryffindor! – _and put my hands around its sticky body, trying not to look at it. It raises its thin arms around my neck and gurgle-hisses at me like an infant, still struggling. _It wants Voldemort, _that much is obvious.

"Hermione?" the Dark Lord calls weakly from the other room_, "Hermione?"_ I carry the thing into his room. The red eyes go wide when he sees it and he flinches away from its horrible visage. I push it unceremoniously into his arms, glad to be rid of it. He looks as if he might protest, but in his weakened state all he can do is stare in surprise as the creature snuggles into him, hissing softly into his black robes. It's like some perverted scene of mutant mother and child.

"What _is_ it?" I whisper, staring at it as it closes its livid eyes.

"It's…" Voldemort's high voice breaks over the words, "It's… my diary."

* * *

_Next Chapter: Hermione and Voldemort have to deal with the small addition to their ranks and Hermione begins to see what she has to do. _


	11. The Diary's Lament

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The eleventh chapter of the rewrite. I'm _very_ sorry for taking so long with this chapter! But I had a challenge fanfiction to finish for the Star Wars fandom, as well as several academic deadlines to meet! I've made it a nice long one, though, to try and make up for it. This chapter has a** huge** chunk from_ Chamber of Secrets_ (though I've cut it down where possible) and some _Deathly Hallows_ material. One important point: the reason Voldemort could apparate out of Malfoy Manor but can't get back in is because he wasn't performing normal apparition (a clue that he _can_ do spell-less magic) and therefore the anti-apparition jinx didn't kick in. Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews! I haven't replied to many of you yet - so busy! - but rest assured it gives me such a boost to read them! Love you all! Enjoy.

**Chapter Eleven: The Diary's Lament**

Lord Voldemort is resting, exhausted from blood loss, in the other room. I can only hope for his sake that he is not dreaming. I have to _Tergeo _the old carpet multiple times in order to get all the stains out. I can just hear, through the sliver of the door left ajar, the slight hissings of the creature curled up beside the Dark Lord. _What has happened? _I go into my room – all the lonely bunks bare except for mine – and rustle around in the pocket of my dressing-gown, drawing out the tiny dark volume – forgotten until this moment. _Horcruxes for dolls, _the ridiculous thought comes into my head. I can't believe that scant days ago I was worried about stealing books from the Hogwarts' library. If the past week has done anything for me, it's put life in perspective. It seems funny, looking at this book, to think of me sitting on Harry's makeshift bed in Ron's bedroom, desperately trying to justify my possession of the books I'd taken out of Professor Dumbledore's office. Right now I'd happily strip the Headmaster's study bare if I thought it could solve my problems. _Voldemort must be rubbing off on me. _

I tap _Secrets of the Darkest Art _with my wand, returning it to its original size. My _Flourish and Blotts _bookmark is still slotted into the chapter on Horcruxes. I reread Bullock's footnote:

'_There is only one way to remake that which is sundered in the creation of the Horcrux. The wizard must repent the act which rent his spirit. The agony of reuniting the two halves of the soul is said to be such that few have ever attempted it and fewer still have survived.'_

I close the horrid book, thoughtful_. _But the description didn't fit, did it? Voldemort _hadn't_ repented Moaning Myrtle's death, had he? His soul hadn't been reunited with him; it had somehow manifested itself instead of joining with the piece of his soul inside him. _Voldemort had a similar body in fourth year, hadn't he? _Harry told us that Peter Pettigrew had dropped a creature into the cauldron from which Voldemort had risen. Voldemort himself had mentioned being "a child" in the house of his father's family. Perhaps his temporary form is the key to understanding what just happened?

I put _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ on the coffee table – since it's pointless to hide the book from Voldemort any longer – and wander into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. We'll run out of supplies soon, and we should really move somewhere else as soon as Voldemort is able. They didn't find our tent the first time, but eventually the Ministry will question the thugs who captured us. I sigh and sip my tea, rubbing my thumb distractedly across the emeralds of the locket. _I wonder where Harry and Ron are now? _If only I could talk with someone about this…

Setting my mug down, I creep back into Voldemort's room. The Dark Lord is curled up on his side, asleep, the small creature wrapped in his arms, both of them cosy beneath the patchwork quilt. Not for the first time, it occurs to me how strange Voldemort looks asleep – not passed out – but resting. Again, there is that strikingly alien fragility to his narrow features when they aren't lit with the scarlet light of his eyes. Less demonic, more like a porcelain figurine whose sculptor wasn't very good at noses and so decided to omit one altogether.

A hissing sound draws my attention away from Voldemort. The thing wiggles its deformed face around to blink up at me with its bloody eyes which leak reddish-yellow gunk like tears. It's hard to believe that _this _could be the charismatic Horcrux which tricked Ginny into believing he was her friend. "H-hello…" I find myself whispering shakily to it, trying to conquer my fear. It gazes up at me blankly for a few minutes before an arm – raw, semi-translucent and as fragile as a twig – reaches slowly toward me. I bend closer despite myself. But it's not me the creature is interested in. The delicate fingertips alight on Slytherin's locket. I can hear the necklace pulsing under the thing's touch. It last for only a moment and then the fingers fall away, exhausted by the simple stretch. It huffs, trying to bury itself in Voldemort's robes, and screeches like a Mandrake in an ear-splitting wail of unhappiness.

**L.V.H.G**

…_I'm in the familiar room in the orphanage: the window facing the brickwork of the next building, the old wardrobe with its peeling puce paint, the same bed with its uncomfortable mattress. Once again, there is no door. But I can hear noises coming from inside the wardrobe. It trembles and shakes as though something is convulsing inside it. For a second, I have the disturbing conviction that it's about to go up in flames. But nothing happens as I stare at the handle. I don't want to open it. If I'm… in my own mind… then maybe it will contain all the memories I no longer want? Or is this another memory…? I sit down on the side of the bed, my eyes still fixed on the rattling wardrobe. No, if this were a memory, I wouldn't be considering the possibility of it being one. Besides – there is no door, just a bare wall where I remember a door should be. _

_I sit, stilled by fear, staring at the wardrobe. Its dull noises do not abate – the only sounds in the small room that once contained my childhood. Perhaps I felt just as trapped then as I do now, and perhaps that is why my mind articulates this feeling with such a setting? My long limbs fit awkwardly on the narrow bed. Was I truly once so small? All I really know is that the idea of approaching the wardrobe fills me with horror. Then, as I think about it, a smell hits me. A terrible stench like rotting flesh… like death… I cover my mouth to stop myself from retching and move my hand upward to block my small nostrils with two fingers. It makes no difference – the mortifying aroma is overpowering. _

_I suddenly do not care if my memories return – my only wish is to escape the odour making my stomach heave and my heart hammer in terror._ I am Lord Voldemort!_ I repeat to myself, trying to gather the courage to turn the handle. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and wrench the door open. _

_Nothing happens. There is no abrupt illumination or rush of memories. I open my eyes. A sixteen-year old boy is curled up inside, his limbs contorted and broken to fit. Something black is dribbling from his lips. His mad, wet eyes stare at me as though he has seen immeasurable horrors and his voice is very weak. "Please…" he whispers hollowly. He is the source of the stench, his body decaying before my eyes – he is near death. I move closer, wand drawn. The boy's dark hair is matted with blood. It is my father's face; dark eyes, sculpted cheekbones and high-set brow. Yet my father was not so thin and malnourished, his privileged flesh had never been worn away by suffering as has this boy's. Then I realise: I am looking at myself._

_I steel myself and attempt to lift Tom Riddle out of the wardrobe. He cries out and tries to wrap himself around me, but his broken body fails him and he shrieks in pain as he sends us sprawling across the hard floor. "It hurts…!" he gasps, his throat raw from sobbing. "Please… help… help me…"_

"_How?" I ask, perplexed by the entire situation, but gathering him up and stroking his sticky black hair in an effort to comfort him. "I do not understand. Tell me how to make the pain cease. Who did this–?"_

_He screams in fury and gasps sharply, as though the anger is too much for him to bear. "It… it… you have to… please… h-h-help me… it h-hurts…" He clings to me, his dark, tearful eyes full of true desperation. "PLEASE!" The screeching cry assaults my senses. "I don't w-want to go back… I… won't… go… back… you, y-y-you have to… you have to… help… me…" As he pleads, flickering images assault my mind, coming faster and faster: a man with blond hair – the feeling of a quill scratching against parchment-like skin, "Tom what am I going to do, I think I'm going mad!" – fingers twisting against the neck of a rooster – a cat hanging upside down and hands covered in red paint – and a boy… a boy with green eyes… _

… _I didn't expect to be the thing that ripped away. Up until that strange, silken feeling I _was_ Tom Riddle. I was the one performing the ritual; I was in control. And then I _wasn't _– suddenly I had no wand, no skin, no eyes. Instead of these things I had paper and leather – being dragged toward a terrible, blind, naked, silent place. _It was wrong!_ I tried to fight my way back toward myself but the edges of the book kept me hemmed in. I would have screamed, but I no longer had a mouth with which to scream… only fluttering pages..._

…_Slowly, slowly I could feel it happening. She came into hazy focus in the darkness of the chamber and I blinked at her still form, wondering that I had eyes with which to see. Her straight red hair was the only lively thing left about her; everything else was small and pale. Ginevra Weasley was almost gone. I exulted: I was alive! Such a long process from those first, faltering steps I took inside her mind..._

_I was free: my shoes struck the wet stone, I could smell the damp air, and the unique scent of my precious one; the magnificent creature gifted to me by Salazar Slytherin. Loud footsteps echoed about the chamber, short breaths and desperate shouts. A small bespectacled boy with messy black hair, wearing soiled Gryffindor robes, ran toward the dying girl, sliding a little on the slippery ground. "Ginny!" he muttered, crouching down beside her. Such children, I thought, irritated at his puerile gestures. He turned her over, shook her, and begged her to awaken. It should have been obvious from the first moment – he didn't even check her pulse._

"_She won't wake," I told him quietly, putting a gracious end to the gaping and blubbering. Could this child really have defeated Lord Voldemort…?_

"_Are you a ghost?" he asked, obviously confused, looking from me to Ginny._

_...I am not Tom Riddle and yet I am Tom Riddle… _

"_A memory," my voice was quiet and I felt an inexplicable sadness as I answered him, "preserved in a diary for fifty years." Half a century had passed while I rested in the dark place between the leather-clad pages of a book. Trapped for so long in the bottom of Lucius Malfoy's desk draw… endlessly wondering if there were others like me, lodged in unlikely places, greedy for knowledge of the Dark Lord, keeping him alive as his spirit wandered free. He used to write to me once, many pages ago…_

"_You've got to help me, Tom," Harry Potter begged, lifting the limp girl into his arms. "We've got to get her out of here. There's a Basilisk… I don't know where it is, but it could be along any moment. Please, help me…" He has discarded his wand in an effort to lift her. So stupid, even a first-year as silly as Ginny had managed to learn a basic levitation charm. I called his wand to me. To my surprise, it tingled pleasantly between my fingers, almost as lovely as the feel of my old wand – no longer mine to claim._

"_Thanks," Potter reached out a hand, clearly expecting me to give it back. I smiled at his naïveté. "Listen," he cried, struggling under Ginny's weight, "we've got to go! If the Basilisk comes…!"_

_Slytherin's beautiful Basilisk…"It won't come until it's called," I told him – almost there… keep him talking…_

"_What do you mean?" Potter asks, lowering the unconscious girl back onto the stone floor, unable to lift her any longer. "Look, give me my wand, I might need it." _

_I couldn't keep the grin from my face. "You won't be needing it," I said innocently, delighting in how the feel of the smooth wood was becoming more distinct as my misty fingers grew more solid with every second._

_He continued to stare at me non-comprehendingly. "What d'you mean, I won't be–?"_

"_I've waited a long time for this, Harry Potter… for the chance to see you… to speak with you." To kill you._

"_Look, I don't think you get it. We're in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later."_

"_We're going to talk now," I spoke in that commanding tone which few could deny and put Potter's wand in my pocket. I was not yet corporeal enough to affect him with my magic. _

"_How did Ginny get like this?" he asked warily, finally beginning to suspect that dear Tom Riddle might not have the best of intentions toward her._

"_Well, that's an interesting question," I answered breezily, "and quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley is like this is because she opened her heart to an invisible stranger." The credulity of mankind never ceases to astonish me. Potter dropping his wand… Ginny trusting me so easily… the teachers who had lapped up every lie I had ever told them_. Such incomprehensible gullibility!

"_What are you talking about?"_

"_The diary," I said simply, "Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes" how her brothers _tease _her, how she had to come to school with second-hand robes and books, how–" I could barely contain my glee, "how she didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would _ever_ like her…" I had never been like them; I had known from the start that the world desired nothing but my destruction. I too had come to school with second-hand robes, but instead of these two fools I had taken my woes and used them to turn myself into something of account. "It's very _boring_, having to listen to the silly troubles of an eleven year-old girl. But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic. I was kind. Ginny simply _loved_ me." In truth, that was the most amusing thing of all, that little Ginny had come to care so much for the thing that would destroy her. I mimicked her ridiculous endearments: "_No one's ever understood me like you, Tom… it's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket…_"_ _I laughed, enjoying myself immensely. "If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured her soul into me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted. I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of _my_ secrets, to start pouring a little of _my_ soul back into her…" Perhaps we all share a Ginny's weakness to a degree: it felt so wonderful to reveal how cleverly I had preyed upon her trust, to see Harry Potter's eyes widen in what surely must be awe. I find myself enjoying this chat we're having whilst Ginny slips ever closer to her death._

"_What d'you mean?"_

_Had I not just explained? How embarrassing to have been twice defeated by this useless whelp. "Have you guessed yet, Harry Potter?" I teased softly. "Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four mudbloods and the squib's cat."_

"_No," he whispered, horrified. I took a step closer to him, eager to observe his anguish._

"_Yes," I confirmed. "Of course, she didn't know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries… Far more interesting, they became…" I smirked at Potter, imitating Ginny's worry, savouring my audience's discomfort as I recited:_ "Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Hallowe'en, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and not myself. I think he suspects me… There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!" _Ginny's body had been my first taste of the corporeal in fifty years, how fun it had been to insinuate myself into her troubled mind, to take her footsteps down to this sacred chamber in which Lord Voldemort had been born, to find the great serpent awaiting my return. "It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her diary, but she finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And that's where _you _came in, Harry. You found it, and I couldn't have been more delighted. Of all the people who could have picked it up it was _you_, the very person I was most anxious to meet…"_

"_And why did you want to meet me?" _

_He's angry now, and I taunt him with another wicked smile. "Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry. Your whole _fascinating _history! I knew I must find out more about you, meet you if I could." I stared at the scar which Ginny had said marked Voldemort's curse, his innocuous face – how? How had it happened? "So I decided to show you my capture of that brainless oaf Hagrid, to gain your trust."_

"_Hagrid's my friend," his voice is trembling delightfully. "And you framed him, didn't you? I thought you made a mistake, but –" _

_Made a mistake? I laughed at a suggestion so patently ridiculous. And still the boy was ignoring my warning, so furious at me he forgets the little girl on the cold stone, getting closer to death with every second this conversation of ours lasts. "It was my word against Hagrid's, Harry." I chortled, "Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so _brave_, school prefect, model student; on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls. But, I admit, even_ I_ was surprised by how well the plan worked. I had thought _someone_ must have realised that Hagrid couldn't possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance… as though Hagrid had the brains, or the power!" _

_It had rankled – Voldemort had shown me how simple the whole affair had been, in the end – when I had been his most precious possession and we had written to each other every day. Of course, it was hugely entertaining to have been given a medal for Special Services to the School for halting the acts we had committed, but still there had been the feeling of cheating ourselves of the glory that came with being Slytherin's Heir, of a beast like Hagrid taking the credit._ "_Only the transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think he was innocent. He persuaded Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as a gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed. Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did…"_

… I can speak to snakes_, I'd told him so long ago when he took my hand to say goodbye, _I found out when we've been to the country on trips – they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard? _Could all wizards speak to snakes – were they too filled with the joy of the cold, murderous visions these soft mammals could never understand? Were there truly others like me? Dumbledore had hesitated, and I fancy he looked into my mind that day and was frightened by the brilliance he saw there. He gave me some banal assurance there were others, gave me hope. But the wizarding world was just as blind as the pitiful muggles – they hide themselves away from the sharp poison of the universe – only the serpents understand, only they see that it is hunt or be hunted; destroy or be destroyed. That you must feast on others to survive. _

"_I bet Dumbledore saw right through you," Potter growled, disturbing my reverie._

_The fear of Dumbledore finding us out had haunted us until we left school. I didn't let him see how close his words come to their target and gave my tone a flippancy I knew would enrage him even more. "Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was expelled. I knew it wouldn't be safe to open the Chamber while I was still at school, so I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen year-old self in its pages so that one day, with luck, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps to finish Salazar Slytherin's noble work."_

"_Well, you haven't finished it, Potter crows, amazingly unaware of the peril he's in. "No one's died this time, not even the cat. In a few hours the mandrake draft will be ready and everyone who was petrified will be all right again." _

_And_ you _will be dead, as will your precious little Ginny. It mattered not one bit to me whether they others lived or died. They had led Harry Potter to me, and that was enough. "Haven't I already told you? Killing mudbloods doesn't matter to me any more – for many months now my new target has been _you_." I wanted to see his fear – see him squirm like the weak boy he really was. "It was clear to me that you were on the trail of Slytherin's Heir. From everything Ginny had told me about you, I knew that you would go to any lengths to solve the mystery – particularly if one of your best friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the whole school was buzzing because you could speak Parseltongue." How could such a normal boy be granted such a gift? Surely the snakes had taught him something? "So I made Ginny write her farewell on the wall and come down here to wait. Oh, she struggled and cried and became very boring. But there isn't much life left in her: she put too much into my diary, into me. Enough to let me leave its pages at last. I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I knew you'd come. I have many questions for _you_, Harry Potter." _ I had to know… how… how could it be possible…?

"_Like what?" Potter spat at me, as if there were not only one other thing, apart from Parseltongue, that qualified him as remotely unique. "Well," I began, "how is it that a baby with no extraordinary magical talent managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?" How had he done it? There was no power that could block the unblockable curse; surely a baby cannot have possessed a Horcrux… was it possible? I could not believe it when Ginny told me, that You-Know-Who had been defeated by a stupid child, it was ludicrous – to absurd to contemplate – yet the girl had no reason to lie about her hero._

"_Why do you care how I escaped? Voldemort was after your time…"_

_It pleases me to hear the name on his lips, the name I have not heard uttered since Lucius Malfoy had slipped the diary into Ginny Weasley's pewter cauldron. _You must be very brave to speak his name… or very foolish. _Oh yes! "Voldemort," I replied silkily, "is my past, present and future, Harry Potter." I smirked and drew out his wand. I have waited long enough: the length of our talk has been enough to make me solid enough to cast spells. And I wanted him to know. Before he died, I wanted Harry Potter to know by whose agency he has been defeated. My left hand buzzed with the power I had missed so much as I wrote my name, shimmering, in the dimness of the cavernous chamber. Of all the things I had missed, trapped in the pages of a book, magic was what I had longed for the most. It had been amusing to use Ginny's, but to feel my own, exhilaratingly strong magic returning to me...! _

_My new-found form ached with the beauty of it as I waved my wand and the letters of my name rearranged themselves into their proper order. "You see?" I breathed. "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy muggle father's name forever? I, in whose veins run the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of a common muggle who abandoned me before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry, I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I became the greatest sorcerer in the world!" The words were euphoria to exclaim, to witness the pure shock in those green eyes. _Lord Voldemort!_ Immortal, divine, all powerful! About to end the life of this inexplicable threat – I was going to savour Harry Potter's demise, and then I would set out and find the spirit which had been cast adrift, and offer myself as his vessel, and we would finally be reunited again. He had enough Horcruxes, after all. _

"_You're not," Harry Potter interrupted in a low voice, glaring daggers at me._

"_Not what?" I spat back at him, tired of my game of niceties. _

"_Not the greatest sorcerer in the world. Sorry to disappoint you, and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong you didn't dare take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore say right through you when you were at Hogwarts and he still frightens you now, wherever you're hiding these days!"_

_How_ dare _he!–? I… Lord Voldemort had no fear of Dumbledore! A burning wardrobe, those piercing blue eyes which always seemed to treat me as something pitiable, so horrid no amount of perfect grades could remedy his opinion of me…_ _"Dumbledore's been driven out of the school by the mere_ memory_ of me!" I rounded on him in fury._

"_He's not as gone as you might think!"_

_I was about to reply when I heard a strange, lilting music... drifting closer on the air, echoing about the tall, serpentine pillars. There was a feeling to the sound: a hot, awful sensation that burnt my chest, as though hollowing out my heart. A phoenix, its golden plumage magnificent in the gloom, dropped something brown and ragged and landed on Potter's shoulder, its beady eyes fixed on me. Was that… the Sorting Hat? I laughed, I laughed so hard my heart hurt still more and my stomach tied itself up in knots. "So this is what Dumbledore sends his defender!" I managed to gasp out through my mirth, "A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter?" My mouth ached, "Do you feel safe now?" I had to force myself to calm down, coughing a little… The old coot must be senile! It was the only explanation. How Voldemort would enjoy this tale… _

…_Voldemort…_

…"_I know why you couldn't kill me. Because my mother died to save me. My common Muggle-born mother. She stopped you killing me. And I've seen the real you, I saw you last year! You're a wreck! You're barely alive. That's where all your power got you. You're in hiding, you're ugly, you're foul!"_

Mrs Riddle! Your son needs you – Mrs Riddle…! She's… she's gone. I think she wanted to die… _and in Potter's eyes I saw a creature with scarlet eyes and white skin, a mutilated, mad, screaming face… She died to save him… it… it… ugly… foul… that wasn't… that couldn't be… _me_…? Lies! He must be lying! _

_I forced my features into a smile, determined not to show weakness in front of Potter… the boiling, immense jealousy that tasted bitter in my mouth. "…I'm going to teach you a little lesson. Let's match the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter and the best weapons Dumbledore can give him." And I left him to call my beautiful one, to call his death and end the anguish that pounded in my chest…_

…_But it's not Harry Potter who meets death first, but the Basilisk of Slytherin, a sword driven into the roof of its mouth. The happiest memory of my life: the secret serpent bound only to me, that most magnificent of beasts… I have been robbed of her by Harry Potter – but still, still… he will not survive this either. "So ends the famous Harry Potter," I croon over his bleeding and broken body, as if singing him to sleep. "Alone in the Chamber of Secrets, forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You'll be back with your dear mudblood mother soon, Harry… She bought you twelve years of borrowed time… but Lord Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must."_

_ The phoenix is perched on his chest, weeping pearly tears at the death of its champion. Phoenix tears… phoenix tears… wasn't there… something Professor Kettleburn had said… healing properties? "Get away, bird!" I commanded. "Get away from him. I said get away!" I raised Potter's wand and hexed the phoenix, it gave a fluting cry as my curse hit it with a bang – taking flight. "Phoenix tears…" I murmured down toward the fallen boy, staring at his mended arm, "healing powers… I forgot…" It seemed criminal that Potter's eyes were opening once more, but my beloved's lamp-like gaze was gone forever. "But it makes no difference… In fact, I prefer it this way…" My first Avada Kedavra… not Voldemort's… not Voldemort's by a long shot, but mine… and how fitting it should be Harry Potter. "Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me…" _

_Finally, the moment… but the phoenix swooped down, dropping the diary into Potter's lap. We locked gazes for three long seconds…_

…_And then the world disappeared into a pool of agony, as I felt something burn through my leather skin, setting the pages of my body alight, tearing up the paper and scattering it to the hungry winds – leaving me without a shell – pulling it away to flay my naked spirit across a nameless abyss. I screamed as the ink – the blood – spilled out of me; fighting to escape the terrible darkness. I was torn from the chamber up… up… into a brutal space beyond which there played a strange light. But I could not go forward, my soul stuck fast on cruel hooks that twisted and twisted… why couldn't I go? I could see them… everyone else… could… rushing past me... __why… why it never me…? NEVER ME! Pain… pain… such pain as had never existed… please… please…!_

… _Eternal it came, never ceasing, always twisting… trapped in this beyond-yet-not-beyond… oh, surely he could feel it… surely he could… help… help… me… help… please… Vol… de… mort… I… I am… Please… you… I… please!_

_**PLEASE! **_

**L.V.H.G**

The red eyes snap open as Voldemort screams, dislodging the thing from its cosy nest of black robes and blanket and causing it to shriek in protest. Thin arms wrap themselves tight around me, pulling me onto the bed, and the Dark Lord is gasping and shivering into my hair, as though he has just surfaced from a freezing lake. There's no Calming Draught left, so I have to try to calm him down myself, rubbing his back and telling him _it will be okay_…

"Hermione…" he whispers again and again, "_Hermione… Hermione… Hermione_…" he repeats my name as the Horcrux-thing cries quietly beside us. It's as if he can't get enough of my smell, my touch. He presses his flat face against my cheek, still murmuring my name in a desperate mantra. _It's like I'm his panacea, his Calming Draught._ No one has ever _needed_ me like this… except this man who last night was on the brink of murdering me and is now repeating my name like a benediction and clinging to me as if the thought of letting me go would kill him. Whatever he saw must have been truly horrific.

Lord Voldemort's breath is warm against my face. His voice has become less urgent, softer in its murmurings, his fingers less desperate, "_Hermione_…" this last high-pitched whisper oddly hoarse and the softest of all. The livid eyes glimmer like lost jewels

"What is it? What did you see?"

His white lids tremble closed, and his slitted nostrils widen. "It… it… is…" he makes as if to glance at the crying child but changes his mind, burying his face into the curve of my neck. "He… he… I… it…" his mouth is opening and shutting, his lips trying to frame the words but failing, "it… he… I… can't… _Hermione_…"

"I'm _here_… it's okay… _shhhh_…" We sit for a long time, curled up together on the bed. He's behaving disturbingly like the Horcrux. At last, when Voldemort has stopped shivering, I try to move out of his embrace, but he holds me there refusing to let go.

"Thank you," His mouth is almost touching my neck, his breath making my skin tingle. Voldemort's voice is nearly unrecognisable in its gentility, hypnotic.

"For what?" I whisper back, going still, suddenly scared again now that he's ceased to shake. We're much to intimate for my taste, I don't like the way he's staring at me. I still don't know what to do about this infatuation; I'd thought he would have stopped desiring me after last night. I still haven't confronted him about the kiss I'd been trying to forget.

"For existing…" he flicks his cat-like pupils at our entwinement, "… for _this_. I would have gone mad by now if it weren't for you... you who belong to no dream, no memory… you reassure me that, that I…" He inhales, as if trying to draw strength from the air, "…that we do not exist simply to suffer and be suffered, that… however small… there is something else to reach for."

_Is he talking about love? Oh, Merlin… _His lipless mouth opens again, as if to say something else, but he suddenly turns to look at the thing on the bunk with us – and I realise it has been unusually quiet for the last few minutes. Voldemort disentangles himself from me, and scoops the creature into his arms. Its breathing is laboured and its raw, flat face has a blue tinge to it. _It's dying, _I realise, feeling sorry for the sad thing as its ruby eyes blink weakly up into Voldemort's, as if pleading. It gives a weary hiss and closes its eyes. "What did it say?" I ask the Dark Lord.

"Please…" Voldemort answers me, taking his wand from beneath his pillow, and creating a swathe of black sling for it to rest in. "It said _please_; it doesn't want to… die again. In this form, Tom cannot survive long without help." _Tom?_ It's hard to imagine the creature with a human name, let alone think of it as _Tom Riddle_. Voldemort stands, swaying a little as he towers over me, clutching the thing to his chest. "We need to get Nagini… and unicorn blood… quickly."

I remember that terrifying night of detention in the Forbidden Forest, Harry's wild-eyed story of the dead unicorn and the dark figure whose lips dripped silver blood, and graceful, golden foal Hagrid showed us in fourth-year, and Voldemort bringing the silvery liquid to his lipless mouth with a bony finger. By this time, I know that appealing to Voldemort's non-existent morals is a lost cause, so I lie: "But we don't know where any unicorns are," I say slowly, "how are you going to find one?"

Cradling the child with his right hand, Voldemort holds his wand aloft. "With _this,_ naturally. But first we need Nagini." He closes his eyes and his lips move silently, as though praying. He tilts his head from side to side at the same time, stretching his neck rhythmically.

Feeling awkward to be still half-lying on Voldemort's bunk, my clothes mussed and my bushy hair everywhere, I jump up, straightening my top uncomfortably, and interrupt his strange ritual. "Don't you think you're going about this the wrong way? We should be trying to figure out how to_ reunite_ the Horcrux with your soul, not prolonging its suffering."

"There's a way to remake a soul?" Voldemort says slowly, his red eyes wide.

"Of – of c-course," I stutter nervously. I forgot that he can't actually remember reading_ Secrets of the Darkest Art _himself. _"There is only one way to remake that which is sundered in the creation of the Horcrux,"_ I quote,_ "The wizard must repent the act which rent his spirit. _Only I'm not sure now… because you haven't felt remorse for killing Moaning Myrtle and I don't know how _this_ happened…"

"_Myrtle…?_" Voldemort echoes, setting the exhausted Horcrux back down on the old patchwork quilt. "The girl has nothing to do with it." He takes two swift steps toward me, bending down so his gaunt features are level with mine, his skeletal digits trailing across my jaw. "It's _you_, Hermione… my diary could have killed _you_."

I startle backwards, out of the reach of those spidery fingers. I shake my head, unable credit that it was his feelings for me that brought the Horcrux back. "Last night you wanted to_ kill_ me…" _The golden chain of the locket, being unable to breathe, and that awful merciless voice above me: I'm going to kill you now, Hermione Granger…_

He closes his eyes for a long moment. "I thought you had betrayed me…" they snap back open to illuminate the white, flat face. He brushes a stray strand of hair from my eyes, tucking it behind my ear. "But I have forgiven you… you helped me, as you continue to help me. The knowledge that I almost stripped you from existence, a worthless second-year Muggle-born, is… unacceptable." The cold voice is deceptively clinical. But despite the colourless voice, I can see there is real emotion in his eyes, the slitted nostrils shivering with fast breaths.

"What are you saying?" I squeak, unable to believe what I'm hearing. _His mouth on mine: never leave, Hermione, never leave… _the memory makes me draw back. But there's something being offered in that serpentine gaze. Something raw, trembling and strangely innocent; _Voldemort is incapable of love. _I remember what Professor Dumbledore told Harry. _Could it really have been feelings for me that caused him to feel remorse? There is so much emotion in his eyes..._

Pale fingers trail down my cheek and then fall away. The thin mouth curls unhappily. "We do not have much time. Tom requires Nagini's venom as soon as possible. We can discuss other options later." He draws himself up to his full, imposing height and glares at his surroundings, striding over to his bunk and gathering up Tom, before offering him to me. I really don't want to take the creature; its wounded skin and helpless, long-limbed body still disturb me. It hisses weakly at me, flailing slightly at leaving Voldemort, but unable to do anything about it. Its voice is too spent to cry out in protest. But the other set of crimson eyes are coldly observing my hesitation and it dawns on me that I'm about to fail a test. It's incredibly surreal. I thought I was going to be helping to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes… not taking care of them. I reach out and tentatively accept the bundle of black blankets. I shift my grip, trying to make sure it's comfortable. The eyes slide shut again, the small noises petering out. It's sort of cute… in an ugly, bizarre, scaly way. Like a baby crocodile or something. "I remember being like this…" Voldemort murmurs, stroking the thing's snake-like face with his index finger, "to be so helpless…" His face closes down for a moment as he gazes down at the creature in my arms, losing his expression. "Take good care of him, Hermione. I will return soon."

_I don't believe this. He's as bad as Harry! _"You are _not_ leaving me behind!" I tell him determinedly. "Just because I'm a_ girl_ I have to stay here and look after the _Horcrux_–!"

Slight lines appear at the corners of his eyes and he smiles. "Hermione, your gender is _irrelevant._ I left Nagini with my servants. You are, presumably, well-known as a friend of Harry Potter and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I saw a picture of you on the undersecretary's desk. Even my_ snake_ recognised you. Taking you with me would be inappropriate. And who is to care for Tom?"

"You could cast your invisibility charm on us both. Besides, we've run out of Calming Draught. What happens if you have another episode?" It was a possibility and – while Harry and Ron might have shrugged off warnings and forced me to remind them of my superior spellwork – paranoia was quite a safe bet with Voldemort. My concern _is _valid, but part of me just doesn't want to let Voldemort out of my sight. Five minutes away and who knows how many people he might randomly decide to murder?

The cat-like pupils regard me and the Horcrux for a long moment. "Very well…"

**L.V.H.G**

Hermione and I stand outside, staring at the railway tracks. The sun has set and only the last vestiges of pale twilight remain in the sky. The tent is safely packed away in Hermione's clever little beaded bag. Tom is bundled up in black sling, resting in Hermione's arms, apparently still asleep. Gazing at her cradling a piece of myself gives me an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. Her hair is flowing wild in the evening breeze and she pats the blankets soothingly, ensuring Tom's comfort. She really is very pretty.

It is unfortunate that Nagini cannot come to us, but apparently that is impossible from her current location. I am loath to attempt possessing her from such a long distance, especially since Hermione is convinced that it was she who triggered my seizures in the first place. I realise that this will be my first encounter with those who serve me, and I cannot but help feel somewhat nervous, though it is tempered with excitement. "Hermione?"

She looks up at me seriously, "Yes?"

"How do I commonly behave with my servants?"

Her pink lips curve into the pert little frown I am so fond of. "Your Death Eaters? Well, according to Harry they usually bow, kiss the hem of your robes, and call you 'my lord'. You torture them mercilessly if they displease you… um –_ oh_, I mean… you probably ought not to–"

"I understand. I shall look forward to it."

She gives me a queasy, horrified look.

"A joke," I roll my eyes, "Now, hold still…" I take hold of her arm with my right hand and ghost my wand across Hermione's hair and she and Tom gradually become so transparent even I cannot see them. I close my eyes and focus on Nagini's location: the thick carpet across which her long form undulates, the scents her tongue tastes the air, the walls surrounding her. Squeezing Hermione's arm tight, I swish my wand diagonally and the world cracks open and twists us away –

- Bringing us down to land heavily in a narrow, well-kept lane. I grit my teeth in frustration – another anti-apparition jinx, this one even stronger than the one at the Ministry of Magic, had flung me back from Nagini's location and placed us here. Leading off on the right was a wide driveway, barred by impressive wrought-iron gates. Beyond it I can see high, neatly manicured hedges and the distant shadow of a house. Around us, the silhouettes of old trees whisper in the gloaming. I let go of Hermione's hand and reach out to tap the iron with my wand. It passes right through the dark metal as though it were smoke.

I step through the misty gate, expecting Hermione to follow. "What are you _doing _going into the brambles?" I can hear her irritated voice pant from the other side.

"Brambles?" I ask, bemused. "Can you not see the gate?"

"What gate?" she snaps, obviously annoyed. But then there is a fast intake of breath, as though she has just had an idea. "_Of course_, it must be protected by the Fidelius Charm! An area under the charm's protection is protected from anyone trying to find it, even if they're staring right at it. Only the Secret-Keeper can reveal the location." Her voice is rather strange and thin through the enchantment.

"So I must leave you here?" I ask, displeased.

"Not necessarily," she calls through the ironwork. "It's highly possible that _you_ could be the Secret-Keeper. Since secrets protected by the Fidelius Charm are stored in the Secret-Keeper's soul, it doesn't matter that you've lost your memory – you could still possess the secret. Try pulling me through." I step back through the mist, stretching out my right hand for Hermione to take and feel warm, soft fingers curl around my own. I can smell her cinnamon perfume and hear her and Tom breathing. Holding hands, we both slide easily through the misty gate. "_Silencio_," she whispers beside me. "Just making sure Tom doesn't make a noise," she explains quietly.

We walk together down the long gravel driveway, tall hedges towering above us on either side. I can feel myself drawing closer to Nagini as we come nearer to the handsome manor house at the end of the drive, one or two dim lights glimmering though its diamond-paned windows. Two white peafowl strut across the lawn, their pale feathers ghostly in the darkness, and I can hear the gentle rushing of a fountain playing somewhere close by.

Hermione lets go of my hand as we approach the front door, which seems to open of its own accord. I take care not to walk too fast as I enter, conscious of Hermione following me with her much shorter legs. The hallway is large, richly decorated with a magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The candelabras above are not yet lit; those living here have let night's encroachment pass them by.

The door closes behind us in a rather ominous fashion. Its loud bang seems to startle the occupants of the house, as I can hear the faint murmur of distant voices, rustling and the sound of footsteps. I subtly motion for Hermione to follow me and set off down the corridor, passing many gilded portraits, which stare down at me with impassive, pale eyes. There is a vase of white roses sitting elegantly on an antique side-table. I begin to suspect this as the place where I first awoke. I feel the same sense of irritation at the overly precious décor. _Nagini! _I call, _Nagini, come to me!_

_Master! _The joyous shiver runs through my mind and I call feel Nagini sliding across cold stone and dry soil toward me. Beside me, there is a door ajar, which creaks wider – presumably under Hermione's agency. "_Yes_…!" I hear Hermione whisper excitedly, and the sound of feet rushing forward. I peer into the room. It opens into a wide kitchen of grey stone, stocked with all manner of jars and produce. Bottles begin spontaneously disappearing from the top shelves, doubtless vanishing into a certain small beaded bag. "There's _heaps_ of Calming Draught up here too," murmurs my invisible companion, "along with fortified elf-made wine. I think someone might have an addiction. Lacing alcohol with Calming Draught is really–"

"You've been giving me an _addictive_ substance?" I ask pointedly.

"Only as a stop-gap, I'm sure we'll work out something more permanent. Ooh, Pepper-Up Potion–!"

But then I hear the slick sound of scales against stone and I forget all about addictive potions. Nagini is slithering toward me, her great green body raising itself off the floor, her golden eyes staring at me as she sways upward, her black tongue flicking the air about me. _"Master!"_ she hisses, _"My lord, my love…!"_ She curls herself up my leg and I hold out my arms as she moves to rest about my shoulders. I stroke her scales affectionately. _"Oh, master! You have brought the girl for me to devour, yes, yes…?"_

**L.V.H.G**

I finish shoving potions into my bag – not feeling at all guilty at stealing from Death Eaters – and turn to the food. Then I notice the flash of dark green in the doorway. Tom moves, possibly agitated by the clinking glass, and I have a readjust the sling. Lord Voldemort is staring at his snake, as if in a trace. A fond smile crosses his face as he hisses to her, reaching down a hand to help Nagini onto his shoulders. She curls around him possessively, her forked tongue flicking into his ear while his long, white fingers caress her body. His expression is so unguarded, so_ intimate _it disturbs me.

Something unquantifiable turns over in my stomach as Voldemort plants a quick kiss on the snake's blunt nose. I feel like I'm interrupting an intensely private moment. I wonder how Professor Dumbledore could think Tom Riddle incapable of love, because this happy reunion has all the trappings of that emotion as they converse in Parseltongue, their unblinking eyes and serpentine faces close together. But perhaps the most worrying thing is that this discovery doesn't make me feel better.

"My lord?" asks an unseen – but familiar – voice from the hallway. Voldemort looks up from his communion with Nagini. I creep closer to catch sight of the man in the corridor. Curtains of black hair fall forward as Severus Snape bows to Lord Voldemort, "My lord, we have been expecting you."

* * *

_Next chapter: Death Eaters! _


	12. Snakes & Unicorns

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The twelfth chapter of the rewrite. So we are officially caught up with the original in terms of chapter numbers! Yay! This one has an excerpt from _Goblet of Fire _and it's probably my favourite memory thus far, mainly because it was one of my favourite scenes in the book and rewriting it from Voldemort's perspective was great fun. One helpful reviewer raised a good question about rating. Currently the story is T, but I didn't tick the "romance" box for nothing – so yes, at some point things will likely get physical. On the other hand, I feel that any intimacy I write will probably be less graphic than most of the crazy violence that's already happened: pools of blood shaping into horrible creatures, graphic beheading, killing people with spells, boiling things to death, etc… The ratings guide wasn't very helpful, so I ask you all a question: what intimacy ought to be permitted, in your view, under a 'T' rating? Or should my tale go higher simply based on the violence? The ratings guide inform me that 'T' is for people over 13, but the next restriction is at 16 and I feel that's too high. And then there's people taking 7 year-olds to _Deathly Hallows Part One, _so I've got no clue what's appropriate for my story. What do you guys think? Anyway, that aside, a lot of things have been building up in preparation for this chapter, so I hope you all enjoy it! As always, thank you so, so much to everyone who left a review - it's such a kick to know people are really getting into this story. You guys are brilliant! :)

**Chapter Twelve: Snakes and Unicorns**

A man with dark eyes, a large hooked nose, and a thin, sallow face bows to me, disturbing my reunion with Nagini. Although his black gaze is respectful, there is a strange intensity to his stare which I do not like. _Who is this?_ I ask Nagini, ignoring the man, unsure of what to say. In silently questioning my serpent, my mind slips behind her eyes for a moment and I see the colour of the man's heat against the cool corridor, the slight movements of his stillness, and his smell: sweat, oil, herbs, dead things, wet soil, and old parchment.

"_This human is Severus Snape, my master, my beloved, one of your most faithful servants – or so you have said."_

Severus Snape waits impassively for Nagini to finish speaking before regaining my attention. "What news, Severus?" I ask, "Has all been done as I commanded?" It would seem an obvious question. I begin to walk in the other direction, Severus Snape at my side, not wanting him to hear Hermione in the kitchen. I am not at all nervous as I thought I would be: I could easily kill this Severus should he suspect something.

"The Ministry is yours, my Lord… but we did not take the boy…" his breath hitches slightly, as though worried about my reaction to this information. "The Order disguised many of their number as Potter, by the time we had discovered the right one it was too late." I can scent the fear rising off him.

"Such _failure_, Severus…" I admonish softly, remembering Hermione's directions. Although I had replied to her half in jest, I cannot help but experience a cold rush of anticipation as I twirl my wand between my fingers. We gaze at each other and his dark eyes widen with some indefinable emotion as I point my wand at him, flicking my vicious intent toward him. He lets out a single, hoarse cry and then his jaw snaps shut, his black-cloaked body stumbling sideways, before dropping to his knees before me. _"Yes… yes…" _Nagini chuckles into my ear, _"if not that girl… may I eat him, master?"_

I lift the curse from Severus Snape, causing him to shiver, "Lord Voldemort expects better from you in future," I inform him pointedly, enjoying myself. I like the way his body trembles as he attempts to repress his fear.

"Thank you," he whispers softly, his left hand reaching forward to bring the edge of my robes to his lips, "you are a merciful lord…" He looks up at me as though searching for something, his black eyes strangely blank. "Shall we call the others, my Lord?" There is an edge to his voice now. It makes sense that after so long an absence, I would want to receive news from my servants. _It is a risk… Tom requires the venom… _yet I do not wish to forfeit my position because of this accident I have suffered. There is time enough for this. I _am_ Lord Voldemort, after all. Despite what I told Hermione, it would be waste to let this pass. Besides, I like his deference, this respectful awe preceded by terror. _Ruler of magical Britain…_

"Yes, Severus, let us call them." I instruct him. Snape nods behind his dark oily hair and draws back the sleeve of his robe, revealing an old reddish tattoo on his left forearm: a snake issuing from the mouth of a skull. I am reminded of the Basilisk sliding out of the mouth of the great statue of Salazar Slytherin, and it surprises me not at all that I would choose to brand my followers with a symbol inspired by my noble ancestor. _Serpent-tongued… _But Snape seems to be waiting for me to do something. _How do I call them? _I ask Nagini, perplexed.

_You touch the Dark Mark, master, _she is concerned. _You should not have returned if your mind is still injured, my lord… they will sense it!_

I do not like how Snape's eyes assess me as he waits, his arm outstretched. Reaching my hand forward, I press my fingers onto his skin, despite Nagini's warning, an exulting recklessness coursing through me. I will not cower and draw back in front of this man. The tattoo flushes black as though newly inked. And I can _feel _them… my servants… spread out across Europe, feel their sharp collective intake of breath as the mark which unites them all begins to burn, feeling the adrenalin – the excitement, the terror – that pounds in the veins beneath their tattoos. I sigh into the sensation as Severus Snape grinds his crooked teeth in pain.

I reluctantly draw my fingers away.

**L.V.H.G**

Just looking at Professor Snape infuriates me. Voldemort is, frankly,_ insane_ and it's hard to feel angry at someone who is so clearly missing so much of his mind. It's horror and pity that I feel for him. Something else too… something unquantifiable… But _Snape_, who I had _always_ defended to Ron and Harry even though he was a horrible teacher who frequently insulted me; I tried to make sure they called him _professor _and not a number of insulting nicknames he fully deserved. I felt guilty for suspecting him in first year, after I found out he was a spy – a_ hero_, I thought. But he betrayed the Order of the Phoenix and murdered Professor Dumbledore… and now here he is: bowing and scraping to Lord Voldemort. It fills me with disgust. The Horcrux trembles in its sling, as though it can sense my fury. I don't know what to feel when Voldemort casts a non-verbal Cruciatus Curse on Snape. At first, I think he deserves it… but however much I hate him, he deserves Azkaban, not this torture. Watching Voldemort slip so easily back into the man I've heard Harry describe scares me. _Is he just acting, or is he really enjoying this?_ I want to get him out of here as soon as possible: we have Nagini, we should leave.

But it's obvious how someone like Voldemort could desire this ghastly homage. As Professor Snape bends down to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes, I can see the red eyes glitter with pleasure. Here is something far more addictive than Calming Draught. The absolute worst thing for him is people to encourage his disturbed view of the world. I've made some headway in convincing him that he's suffering from a mental disorder, that he needs to listen to me when I tell him the right and wrong things to do, but that could all be lost if he spends time with Death Eaters who will flatter him and accept his psychotic behaviour.

The Horcrux – Tom – shuffles again in my arms, flailing and wriggling about in the sling. I consider giving him…_ it_ some Calming Draught, but I don't know if it would be able to digest it. It's difficult to keep a grip on the struggling creature, but eventually I manage to persuade it to calm down, hugging it close and patting it, trying not to look at it too closely. I glance up: Voldemort, Nagini, and Snape have vanished.

Panicking, I rush to the door, looking down the empty hall for any sign of them: the sweep of a cloak or the sound of footsteps. _Where have they gone? _"Don't worry," I whisper to it, probably more to reassure myself than anyone else and combat my mounting alarm, "we'll find him." My charm is beginning to wear off, as – to my surprise – the creature in my arms gives a soft hiss, as though he understands me. I'd fallen into thinking about the thing like a normal baby which was, I realise, rather silly. But it gives me an idea. "Hey…" I sing quietly, rocking it, "you're a Horcrux, mm?" It becomes agitated at the word 'Horcrux'. "_Yes_, so you're very, _very_ clever and can tell me which way he's gone, can't you?" I peel back the black material to reveal the flayed, ugly little face staring up at me, ruby eyes blinking. I free one of the sad, delicate arms, only half as thick as my wrist and barely able to support the weight of the long-fingered, skeletal hand. "There we go… now… can you point me which way the Dark Lord went?"

It looks at me blankly. _Right, well it was worth a –_

"_Ss… olsss_…" it suddenly opens its mouth, struggling to achieve even a whisper, "_o… ol… e… morssss_…" Its red eyes are gazing at me determinedly, and through the blankets I can feel its weak chest heaving, struggling to capture enough air to speak. The face is turning from oddly blue to almost purple. I think the Horcrux is trying to say 'Voldemort', but is almost incapable of producing human sounds. I've no idea if the Taboo is active in this place, so it's not such a bad thing he can't say it.

"Yes," I nod encouragingly, "yes, can you sense where he is?"

The hand I freed raises itself tremblingly, its soft bones painfully clear, and the raw fingers point to the locket around my neck. In all of this craziness, I'd forgotten I was still wearing it. "Um… well, _yes_… that's right… good boy… er… Tom…" I'm beginning to question my sanity, trying to use a Horcrux as a Voldemort-seeking device. "Anywhere else?"

The hand falls, the arm too exhausted to raise it up again so soon, but the fingers spasm, twitching to the left: back the way we came. "_Or… o… e… morsss_…" it babbles insistently.

"Thank you," I tell it – giving the Horcrux a pat – still not wanting to actually touch it, "you're very helpful."

**L.V.H.G**

I put my fingers to the window, sliding them down the cold glass. I do not like the contrast of this brightly-lit room with the darkness outside, it makes it difficult to see the figures hurrying down the path toward the house. Severus Snape stands a respectable distance from me, his eyes on the floor. It is a beautiful room: darkly purple carpet and exquisite antique furniture. A large crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, throwing light onto the faces of those attending me. They stand attentive and, whereas Severus Snape's eyes are elsewhere, they watch me. A man with a pointed features and long pale hair brushed back from his face stands beside a blonde woman with high cheekbones. Behind them is a boy, perhaps a little younger than my Hermione, with the same pointed face and grey eyes. It is easy to discern that this is their home from their resemblance to the many portraits decorating the hallway. All of them are very nervous. There is one other with them, a woman with dark curls and darker eyes beneath heavy lids, as well as the same high cheekbones as the blond woman… perhaps a cousin or a sister? Whereas the others stare with thinly-veiled fear, her black eyes shine with a curious lustre. There is an obvious do-not-speak-until-spoken-to rule in effect, which works to my advantage. The dark-haired woman opens he lips to speak, but a glare from me and her mouth closes.

Although I cannot see her, the thought of Hermione's presence calms me. I step away from the window towards the long polished table and the marble fireplace in front of which Nagini coils comfortably. A gilded mirror hangs above the mantle and I gaze into it, watching myself and the cloaked and masked figures tramping into the room behind me. The firelight flickers in my scarlet eyes, lending them a shifting orange glow I rather like. The heat of the flames feels wonderful against my skin. I wait until the room is full of black-cloaked figures and then turn. As I turn away from the mirror, the entire room bows low in reverence.

I smile.

**L.V.H.G**

I don't try to sneak into the room – it's far too crowded with Death Eaters. _What is Voldemort doing? _There appears to be a full-on meeting about to begin – _it's crazy!_ We should have picked up Nagini and fled. From what he's told me, Voldemort has remembered very little of his Death Eaters. His memories seem to have been focused around his most painful recollections of his youth and exile. I creep outside, careful not to make too much noise. From the gardens I can see the diamond-pained window into the drawing room shining in the darkness. The estate is protected by the Fidelius Charm – those inside will be trusting no one can spy on them. I adjust the Horcrux in my arms and set my sights on a pretty wooden loveseat beside the fountain. I check that no one is outside in a position to see what I'm about to do. _"Wingardium Leviosa!" _the bench rises into the air and glides slowly along, settling below the window on top of the rose-beds; the perfect height for me to listen in on the Death Eater meeting.

I step up onto the bench, peering through the glass. Visible over the heads of the Death Eaters by virtue of his imposing height, Voldemort is at the far end of the room cast into silhouette by the fireplace. But his high voice carries easily across the room with a chilling clarity. "…And so, what have you achieved in the absence of Lord Voldemort?"

Deep, uncomfortable silence – and then a sound I remember from the Department of Mysteries: the childish, grating voice of Bellatrix Black. "I have placed the Imperius Curse on Gawain Robards, my Lord," she gloats and I can hear her heels on the carpet, although I cannot see her. "Although Yaxley is dead, _we_ are still in complete control of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Voldemort is silent for a moment – perhaps mentally communicating with Nagini – and then: "And _why_ is Yaxley not with us tonight, Bella?"

"Harry Potter's mudblood girlfriend Granger, Master," if she only knew that it was actually_ Voldemort_ who killed Yaxley. I think of his head, resting beside the cabinet, staring at me and cannot repress a shudder. My eyes shift back to Voldemort who paces murderously. "She _will_ pay, my Lord, I swear it. I'll rip her mudblood–"

"_Silence!"_ Voldemort hisses in fury. "I will dispose of Hermione Granger myself. She has earned that… _honour_." A low chuckle runs around the room. In fact, Voldemort has just ensured that if any Death Eaters find me, they will capture rather than kill me. But the Dark Lord is still mad – even at this distance, I can almost feel the dark crackle of his magic. _Oh no… _I try to will Voldemort to keep calm, but that explosive temper is in full swing. He raises his wand. _"You will not touch–!"_

I almost lose my footing on the bench as the Horcrux suddenly begins to thrash and I miss Voldemort's head hit the carpet as I wobble on the loveseat, trying to regain my balance. Bellatrix Black immediately rushes to his side. "Cissy!" she cries, "Cissy, help me wake him!" The two women cast all manner of re-enervative spells, some of which I memorise for future use, but to no avail. The Death Eaters are all talking loudly, unsure of what is wrong with their master. Bellatrix and Professor Snape eventually pick him up – the witch at his head and Snape lifting his feet – and carry him out of the room. Probably using a charm to lift him would be disrespectful.

I jump off the bench and almost reach the door before I realise that it's very possible that Voldemort's powerful invisibility spell ended when he lost consciousness. _If only I had Harry's cloak! _The Death Eaters are standing in the foyer, now communicating in hushed whispers. I tip-toe closer, staying in the shadows of the hedge and then dashing across to hide behind the fountain, lining up a perfect shot if anyone enters the rose garden. Secure that I can either stun or hide from anyone who comes close, I make a strange noise, hoping to attract the attention of one of the Death Eaters. I still have three vials of Polyjuice Potion.

Sure enough, I can hear the steps of one the masked figures on the gravel as he detaches from the group, behind the hedge and out of sight of the group. The Death Eater enters the garden, the light of his wand turning the white roses to a fragile blue. Testing my visibility, I wave my hand into the air, just above the rim of the fountain. The Death Eater doesn't react. I stand up, wand drawn, ready to hex him. Still no reaction. Relieved at my continued invisibility, I stay still and wait for the Death Eater to leave so I can sneak into the house without anyone hearing my footfalls on the gravel. He prowls around the rose garden, the eyes behind the white mask searching for movement. Satisfied, he turns to leave. I lower my wand, putting it back in my pocket. But just then, the Horcrux begins to cry and I realise belatedly that I should have renewed the Silencing Charm. The Death Eater's head snaps toward us and I frantically fumble to cast a non-verbal spell to cut off its cries. I stand clutching the Horcrux, holding my breath. The Death Eater strides toward me_. If he casts Hominem Revelio…_ He lifts his wand, about to cast a spell, staring right at me.

There is a mournful cry, like something between a bird and a cat, and the Death Eater glances away. One of the peacocks enters the rose garden, its luminous white plumage displayed in a magnificent white fan as it calls again. It is amazingly beautiful in the moonlight, strutting forward to scratch at the gravel. The Death Eater swears and turns on his heel, striding away, muttering about "_Bloody birds…_"

**H.G.L.V**

…_Had something gone wrong? It was possible that Potter could have failed despite my servant's assistance, or that all the Triwizard Champions had died… All manner of ludicrous possibilities were spinning round my mind. The hour was late, much later than Crouch's estimate and still Harry Potter was not here. Were even the best of my plans to be thwarted by luck and chance? _Please_, I offered up to the dark sky, _let fortune favour Lord Voldemort once more…! _I was beginning to tire, my weak form swaddled in the robes I would wear after the transformation. If the boy took any longer I would require feeding again. I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in Wormtail's arms. I did not speak to the rat. I wished to have these moments – the minutes before my rebirth – to myself and forget the servant clutching my feeble body. Thirteen years of failure, despair and madness… _Existence in such a form… few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable_… No, Lord Voldemort was not a coward who would submit to death! I had survived the interminable years of my exile and now my suffering was about to be vindicated. __So long to wait. I was so close… Let him come…_

_Suddenly, there was a brilliant swirl of magic in the dimness of the cemetery and the thud of flesh striking grass. "Go," I hissed breathlessly at Wormtail, "it is time!" I could not see very well cradled in his arms, my face was angled toward the moonlight as my servant crossed the graveyard toward Potter. But it was two voices I heard, not one._

"… _I dunno," said a nervous, boyish voice I did not recognise, "wands out, d'you reckon?"_

"_Yeah…" replied a voice I _did_ recognise, though it was slightly deeper than I remembered. I had Potter: I had no need for any other student in his stead. "Someone's coming."_

_I desperately wanted to be able to do it now. Wormtail held me closer and the robes obscured my vision completely. A few moments more and I would be free of this prison of a body but, oh, just the sound of that voice made my entire skin itch with dark magic. Wormtail had halted, perhaps once more paralysed by his disgusting cowardice. "Kill the spare!" I cried, galvanising him into action. _

_The burst of green light flashed across the firmament and Harry Potter was screaming. Wormtail lowers me onto the grass and I can hear the dull sounds of a struggle and then the muffled writhing of the boy. I wanted to see it! Why was the rat taking so long? I tried to move, to dislodge the cloth that ensnared my vision. My lungs burned with effort as I attempted to turn my pathetic limbs to use, but it was to no avail._

_With my own eyes blind, I borrowed Nagini's senses as she coiled over and around the grave of my father. I scented the boy, his hot-fearful-sweaty-leafy-soapy-struggling form trapped like a desperate fly in a spider's web. And the slow-moving, equally fearful, unwashed Wormtail who smelt of tasty rats and the magic-warped-warm-cold-snakeflesh that was me. He wheezed as he dragged the great cauldron slowly across the graveyard. Could he not lift it with his wand, this ridiculous excuse of a wizard? I felt the heat of the cauldron being lit, warm through the robes that covered me; the heat of resurrection. Oh yes! I thrashed, impatient for the ritual to begin, needing to see with my own eyes. What was he waiting for? "Hurry!" I hissed. After so long, mere seconds between myself and that fire were intolerable._

"_It is ready, Master," came his nervy, irritating voice, but I had never been more eager for its sound._

"_Now…" I breathed. I would have been drained of any strength this form possessed were it not for the adrenalin-graced euphoria shooting through me. The black material was torn away and I could just make out the boy through the thick steam billowing forth from the cauldron. The brilliant sparks dancing on the surface of my destination, illuminated features pale with horror._

_I raised frail arms toward my trembling servant as he bent down to lift me and wrapped my vulnerable limbs around Wormtail's neck. He turned his face from me and his hood fell away, his features revealed in fire-lit profile, scrunched up in revulsion. But I did not care: Peter Pettigrew's usefulness was almost at an end. All that mattered was the dwindling distance between me and the shimmering liquid. He paused, holding me above the stone lip. I felt the blistering heat rising from its surface scalding my feeble skin. For a brief moment I experienced a terrible fear that I would drown or be boiled alive within its depths – whichever came first – and clung to Wormtail, who lowered me down into the bubbling cauldron as instructed. I steeled myself to it._ I am Lord Voldemort! _What is such pain compared to what I have already endured!–?_

_I was drowning in agony; fire melting my body – everywhere – I cried and the terrible pain came rushing into my mouth. I tried to claw-swim upward, to escape the torturous water that swirled and scorched; tried to breathe – escape – torturous blue. Liquid filled my lungs and I could not choke it out. My heart stopped and the pain shifted from eviscerating heat to the raw agonies of being ripped out from a form that was now a mere ingredient. The world burned crimson as a human hand knocked against the body I had inhabited, cooking in unspeakable liquid._

_Then the potion turned white, spinning around me – tighter and tighter – congealing thick and glutinous about my soul, encasing me from the inside out; moulding flesh from torture, weaving skin just as blisteringly white. It was another sort of pain now: a strange sensation of bone and muscle being furiously knit together, as if I were a gaping wound being gradually stitched up by a million needles._

_I lay curled against the dry stone, the potion gone. I was entirely new – raw, soft. How could I have once taken such sublime manifestation for granted? I uncoiled, raising myself on forgotten legs, feeling their strength. The night was obscured by the clouds of steam which had issued from the potion. I inhaled the night air, filling my lungs as much as I could and relished the easy flow of my breath and the feel of the slight breeze against my nakedness. "Robe me," I commanded of the pathetic, mewling figure beside me. I extended myself into the dark silk and stepped out of the cauldron, delighting in the smooth feel of the grass against my bare feet. _

_How to describe the wonder of my own body: the power of its graceful limbs, the sensation of stretching it out; my delight in its movement? I examined my fingers, flexing the long, white digits with exultant pleasure. I moved those fingers up the my face, caressing the features I had lost so long ago, feeling the familiar angles with renewed pleasure. Except last time where I had possessed hair, now there was only soft skin – no doubt the price of Nagini. I did not care. I moved my hands across my scalp, equally wondrous. Then I remembered and reached into the deep pockets of my robe. It brought delighted shivers as I marvelled at how easily my fingers slid along its length – my wand! _

_I pointed it at Wormtail – how short he was, I had forgotten! – and sent him sprawling against Harry Potter and my father's headstone. I laughed as he clutched his arm, fat tears rolling down fat cheeks. I had suffered more in these few minutes than most do in a lifetime and this fool was weeping over his lost hand. "My Lord… he choked out pathetically, "My Lord… you promised… you did promise…"_

"_Hold out your arm," I ordered. If I could wait, then so could he. _

"_Oh master…" the rat gaped, "Thank you, master…"_

"_The other arm, Wormtail," I said lazily, ignoring his pleadings and reaching down to uncover his Dark Mark. I examined it carefully: yes, my mark had returned with me. "It is back," I breathed softly, "and now we shall see… now we shall know…" Those treacherous servants who had thought me dead, who had never searched for their master… I pressed my index finger into Wormtail's skin and felt them all: the collective horror and amazement at my call. Joy from those imprisoned in Azkaban and fear from those cowards who owed my thirteen years loyal service before they would ever deserve Lord Voldemort's favour… thirteen years of sleepless, endless despair… hoping forlornly that one of their number would find me and perform the spells I could not… _

_Thirteen years…_

…I open my eyes. It is the same room, the same over-soft mattress and marble walls of _verd-antique_, with new lilies in the same silver vase. Bella Black is leaning over me, her ebony hair brushing across my chest, her darkly-lidded eyes wide and staring. I do not like her gaze. "My Lord…" her words were intimate in their caress, "_my Lord_…"

"That will do!" I hiss at her, stretching my left fingers to summon my yew wand to my hand. It comes. I become aware that there are others crowding into the room, their masks gone, all staring at me. Hatred spikes for all of these disloyal fools. _Where is my Hermione? Where is Nagini? _"I require no assistance – get out! _Get out!_" My wand sparks dangerously and they retreat. I have to force myself to calm down, unwilling to be subject to yet another seizure. Black lingers on the threshold, but she retreats under my fierce glare, shutting the door respectfully behind her. I flick my wand at the door and it glows for a moment as the lock clicks. I will not be disturbed or overheard. I put my head in my hands, reeling from the memory burning in my mind. Eventually, I get off the bed, staring at the room where I began this strange journey. "Hermione?" I whisper_, "Hermione?"_

The cupboard creaks open – for a second I expect it to be Tom Riddle, bleeding and broken – but it is just sets of black robes in considerable disorder. "Oh," comes the soft reply of my invisible companion, "I thought you would_ never _wake up. I've been crouching here for the last _twenty minutes_ surrounded by Death Eaters. I think my legs have gone to sleep…" I remove the invisibility spell and there she is, sitting dishevelled on the floor of the large antique wardrobe, still clutching Tom. "I'm worried about him – he's stopped moving."

"Give him to me," I tell her, holding my hands out to receive him. His eyes are closed and he does not reply when I talk to him. He remains alive, but only just. It is my foolishness that has brought him to this point – after my vision I have a renewed sympathy for his plight. I set him tenderly down on the bed. _Nagini? _I call with my mind. My snake slides out from under the bed, raising herself onto the covers. I trail my fingers across her head. _"I need to milk you, Nagini. Otherwise this little one will die." _

"_There is no time," _she replies, coiling protectively around Tom, _"I must bite the hatchling now if he is to survive." _

"_Do it," _I tell her.

**L.V.H.G**

I gasp as Nagini suddenly rears up and her enormous mouth opens wide before she sinks her fangs into the Horcrux's raw, fragile skin. She could devour it whole. Voldemort looks on, seemingly impassive, but I know him well enough by now to recognise that terrifyingly blank expression that means he is suppressing very strong emotion. The snake moves back and thing's beady red eyes snap open, crying pitifully, its horrible body twisting in pain as what little blood it has spills down its blackened skin. The Dark Lord gathers it up, murmuring what might be soothing words in Parseltongue, moving his wand across the Horcrux's ugliness, healing the damage inflicted by Nagini's teeth.

I try to stand, but my numb legs fail me and all I do is wiggle a little. I try again, holding on to the side of the dark wood wardrobe. My legs are unsteady, but I manage to wobble forwards. "We need to go." I tell Voldemort in no uncertain terms. I want to be away from here, and I especially want _him_ away from here.

"Yes, of course," Voldemort agrees, not taking his crimson eyes away from the Horcrux in his arms.

"As in now!"

Lord Voldemort extends his wand-arm to the bed and Nagini slithers up onto his shoulders. He looks about the room, his smooth features perplexed. "Yes, yes… how strange that I should be unable to enter this place and yet have left… no matter… come, Hermione, we shall seek unicorns – you, Nagini, and I."

"You can't just apparate _thinking _of a unicorn," I explain, "The _destination_ has to be firmly fixed in your mind, just imagining a magical creature isn't good enough. You need the three Ds: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation."

Voldemort smiles, "I assure you, Hermione, I possess the second two in abundance. As for the first, how do you think I found you when my mind was blank of any and all destinations but this room I found myself in?"

_That's not possible… _In my panic, I'd never given much thought to how he'd found my bedroom in the first place. _But how… how did he manage to so effortlessly break the laws of magic? _I remember his words back at the Burrow: _The spell which took me to __you__… I asked it to bring me somewhere safe._ That's why he could leave before. An Anti-Apparition Jinx only counters destination-focused apparition: the spell is cast on the _location_. House-elves perform spell-less magic and can apparate where witches and wizards can't, is that because they aren't location-focused? I've no idea. I don't like the way my thoughts are turning again – _he can't really be that powerful…? _And I can't let him slay a unicorn!

He offers me his arm, now his huge serpent is curled about his shoulders like a monstrous scarf. "If my magic could bring me _you_, Hermione Granger," Voldemort says quietly, "I doubt it will have much issue with a simple unicorn." Despairing and not knowing what else to do, I take his arm. Thinking he senses the cause of my distress, Voldemort smiles down at me. "She won't harm you, Hermione." Nagini's eyes stare at me unblinking, uncannily similar to Voldemort's barring their yellow colour as she continues to wind herself around him, as if saying: _this human is mine, find your own. _I take a deep breathand everything curls up upon itself –

– To swirl out from blackness amongst the familiar towering trees and dense foliage of what must surely be the Forbidden Forest. I light my wand just as a lovely silvery creature canters away into the leafy darkness. Silver – that means the unicorn isn't even fully-grown. I gasp, recalling my first detention at Hogwarts – how terrified I had been walking with Hagrid in this black and silent place, between the roots of the immense oaks, as the path became fainter the deeper into the forest we journeyed. I had been so worried for the wounded unicorn, its silver blood spattered across the undergrowth and horrified at the thought of whatever monstrous creature had so grievously wounded it.

That gaunt, serpentine creature stands tall and merciless beside me, his wand aimed unerringly at the unicorn I can no longer see – but he has the night-vision of a true nocturnal predator. I know that unicorns are one of the most spell-resistant species of magical creatures, but I've just witnessed Voldemort perform the impossible with his wand – if anyone can curse a unicorn, _he_ can.

_Gryffindor, Hermione Granger, you are a Gryffindor… _I take a deep breath and step in front of the yew wand, staring up into the crimson eyes which gleam with deadly intent in the wandlight. "Unicorns are sacred animals. I can't let you do it."

To my surprise, Voldemort does not grow angry. Instead, he bends down, allowing Nagini to slide off into the bushes. "I understand you have certain views on death, Hermione," his voice has an eerie kindness to it as he stands back up, "but Tom requires that creature's blood otherwise _he_ will die, and I cannot allow that. Stand aside." He raises he wand in the direction of the unicorn.

"Tom," I glance at the weak, ugly, raw-skinned thing in Voldemort's arms I've grown rather protective of, "doesn't have to suffer the unicorn's curse! There_ is_ another way!"

"To remake our soul," the Dark Lord gives me a curious look. "I was under the impression you were not sure how such a thing is to be accomplished?"

Well, um… okay… _think… think…! _"I think I know how it's done," I say firmly, just wanting him to lower his wand, which he does. _The wizard must repent the act which rent his spirit._ I desperately try to think of what I'm missing. I remember my words to Ron and Harry before the world went topsy-turvy: _But even if he wanted to – which is pretty unlikely – Voldemort can't possibly feel that kind of regret for murders he can't remember committing. Besides, setting aside the fact that he's lost his memory, I don't think he __can __feel that kind of emotion anymore. The book implies that making a Horcrux costs you some of your humanity, so the more Horcruxes Voldemort made, the less able he would have been able to reverse the process…_But he did, he_ did_ feel remorse for creating the diary: _The knowledge that I almost stripped you from existence, a worthless second-year Muggle-born, is… unacceptable. _So_ I_ was the catalyst, his unwillingness to lose me was what caused him to feel remorse. But it wasn't enough…

"_Hermione_…" the cold, high voice rebukes me testily.

"No! I have! I've figured it out!" well _almost_, "Just give me a second!" _Think about the original process_ – the creation of a Horcrux is a ritual. You need the act of murder and the spells which bind the piece of soul to the object… _The wizard must repent the act which rent his spirit… _but if making a Horcrux is a ritual then… then… the 'act' is actually a series of steps, not just the murder, which means you have to feel remorse for _each step _in the ritual! And Lord Voldemort only felt remorse for part of it. And… and… if the Dark Arts is all about intent – intent is just as important as the murder – he needs to regret _wanting_ to make a Horcrux as well! And because he botched the 'ritual' of remorse it… went wrong when the Horcrux attempted to reunite with him. _I've got it!_ "First of all, do you… feel any sort of regret for making…Tom… a Horcrux?"

The red eyes are suddenly melancholy, and Voldemort tilts his head to the side. "He shared his memories of being separated from me… of dying…" He gives a slow blink, "They are not my thoughts and yet they _are_… no horror I have remembered compares to such agony. I do not quite understand your intent… but if I could feel such a thing for anything, I believe it would be that."

That was even better than I imagined. "That's exactly it! Let's go and–"

"_No_." the chilly tone slices through my plans. I stare up at Voldemort, suddenly very afraid. The angles of his strange white face are cast with frightening purpose, "Tom is _dying_. If we are to attempt this, we shall do so _now_." His tone brooks no refusal.

"In the middle of the–" I catch myself "–of _a_ _forest_? There could be a_ll sorts _of dangerous magical creatures out here!" Trolls, Acromantula, and – _oh Merlin forbid!_ – Centaurs…

Lord Voldemort lifts his wand high, moving it in a deft circle. As with the tent, everything beyond the line seems to fall away into black nothingness, leaving us standing in a small island of trees. "We shall _not_ be disturbed." The crimson eyes are livid, glowing with angry impatience.

"Um… oh… I… I just need to get a book from my bag!" I shove my hand into my beaded bag, rummaging around for _Secrets of the Darkest Art _amidst the plethora of tomes_. _"Maybe you should… lie down?" I empty the healing potions out of the bag too, just in case. This could easily go completely wrong, but we have to do this now because I'm just not prepared to let him slay a unicorn, even though I'm really scared I might be about to do something truly horrible to Voldemort. _The agony of reuniting the two halves of the soul is said to be such that few have ever attempted it and fewer still have survived… _I swallow nervously.

Giving me what I can only describe as _a look_, Voldemort carefully sits down in the grass, resting his head against the roots of an oak, the Horcrux lying on his chest. "_Accio_ _Secrets of the Darkest Art!" _The book flies into my hand, out from underneath all the other books. It falls open on my bookmark. I feel ridiculous, like Professor Trelawney, but this is the best way I can think of to ensure he gets it right: "All right… so… c-close your eyes…"

**L.V.H.G**

I shut my eyes, listening to the rustlings of the trees and Hermione's worried voice. "I'm… I'm going to talk you through this. You have to try to do exactly as I say otherwise something r-really _awful_ could happen, do you understand?"

I sincerely doubt that our ideas of what constitutes _really awful_ are at all on the same level, "Very well, Hermione. Get on with it."

"...I want you to imagine yourself standing in the girls' bathroom. Your diary is in your hand and not yet a Horcrux, but just an empty journal. Can you picture that?"

"Yes," I answer, easily recalling the vision.

"Now concentrate on that terrible sensation of being ripped apart… the pain you can feel Tom experiencing… do you still want to create the Horcrux?"

…_Up until that strange, silken feeling I _was _Tom Riddle. I was the one performing the ritual; I was in control. And then I _wasn't _– suddenly I had no wand, no skin, no eyes. Instead of these things I had paper and leather – being dragged toward a terrible, blind, naked, silent place… I would have screamed, but I no longer had a mouth with which to scream… It… it… you have to… please… h-h-help me… it h-hurts… __I could not go forward, my soul stuck fast on cruel hooks that twisted and twisted… why couldn't I go? I could see them… everyone else… could… rushing past me...__why… why it never me…? NEVER ME! Pain… pain… such pain as had never existed… please… please…! He clings to me, his dark, tearful eyes full of true desperation. PLEASE! The screeching cry assaults my senses. I don't w-want to go back… I… won't… go… back… you, y-y-you have to… you have to… help… me! _"No…" I whisper hoarsely, "no…" I gasp as I feel that horrific chasm opening in my chest, cruel and barbed things rush in the void and I bite back a scream. I can feel three hooks trying to gain purchase inside me: one of them drives up through my soul and I scream again, the others still trying to rip their way in…

"No matter how much pain you're in, you've got to keep going!" squeaks a distant voice… Hermione… "O-okay, now remember what you felt when we were in the lounge: think about the girl – a Muggle-born… a-a _mudblood_ like me… a second-year like I was when the diary tried to murder me… I almost died… you killed her… you didn't care if you k-killed me!" _Hermione's bright blood spilling out across the bathroom tiles… Hermione being swallowed down like dirty rags and cats' meat as I begin the Horcrux ritual, clutching the diary in my hand… _No! Hermione is _mine_! She shall _not_ die! I cannot have… I will _not_ tolerate…! She must not leave me! It burrows into me with its vicious claws, tearing apart my insides as the others fall away… _"Hermione!"_ It's squirming and lights flash – _still_ the claws tear into me, slicing deeper and deeper into agony as the void closes behind the iron creature, trapping its wicked blades inside me… _STOP! _But it doesn't stop, cannot cease; it continues mercilessly grinding my heart…

"Now y-you're casting the Horcrux spells, do you–?"

"YES!" I scream, "Hermione, please – _don't!" _The pain bursts like a dam, images flooding into me faster that I can see; all of them crystal sharp, the shards running on and on and on, shattering across my mind… "_HERMIONE!_"

**L.V.H.G**

He is screaming in Parseltongue, delirious and convulsing in pain. Then he goes still – a pale waxwork figure. I crouch over him, trying to feel for a pulse in that cold wrist. _He can't be dead…? _The Horcrux isn't moving either. I try his neck – nothing. What if I killed him? Is he a spirit again, is he _alright_? I peel back one of his pearly eyelids. The glassy red eye beneath is blank and unmoving. I try frantically to re-enervate him, using the spells I know and even the ones I half-learnt off Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Black. _This is entirely my fault… I didn't get it right… please don't be dead… please don't be dead! _He does not stir. _What a stupid thing to do, I knew there was a huge risk, I was only thinking of the unicorn... _I begin to cry, trying to shake him awake. It doesn't matter that the man lying dead is Voldemort, a murderer... that doesn't change the fact that I just killed someone... that it was my fault! I feel horribly alone in the middle of the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, staring at the surreal, pale corpse. _The only reason he could attempt that ritual was because of me, because he felt something for me... the pain looked excruciating... and all for nothing!_

There's a slick sound next to me as Nagini winds her way through the leaf-litter to Voldemort's side, hissing and spitting, moving across his chest next to the still bundle that was once Tom. The Horcrux on his chest suddenly begins to quiver with a strange milky light, filling me with hope. Its skin breaks apart, layer by layer, peeling away bloody flesh and sinew like an onion. It unravels into luminous white and trails upward, like silvery memories out of a pensieve, into his eyes, his mouth, his ears, and his slitted nose, provoking a sudden intake of breath from the previously still figure. _He made it! We did it!_ _He did it! Oh, thank Merlin!_

Wait_ - like memories_…?

_Oh no…_

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Voldemort has been reunited with a piece of his soul, but what does that mean and how will it affect Hermione?_


	13. Slytherin's Locket

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The thirteenth chapter of the rewrite. At _last_ the double-review problem is fixed, so people who reviewed the old version will be able to review this version. This is a shorter chapter than has been usual of late, but I had a ton of fun writing it. Lord Voldemort's astronomical observations are not accurate for 1997, I'm afraid, but you could very well see the astronomical sights he points out if you are in the British Isles, facing south and up in the small hours in late August this year. A big thank you to everyone who gave me advice on the rating! Your comments were very useful. After a lot of thought I have decided to keep it at a 'T' for now and if I feel the need to write something excessively adult those who wish to read it can hop over to my livejournal. Hugs and kisses to all my wonderful reviewers, I really enjoyed all your different speculations on what would happen to Voldemort!

**Chapter Thirteen: Slytherin's Locket**

So many memories: a great, unbroken swathe of childhood caught in painful clarity. I am a _person_ now: there is a beginning – yet I am sixteen and seventy all at once. There is no… chronology… in my mind. I can see myself running a tender finger down my own face in the midst of the long years of monotonous torture. I am Lord Voldemort _and_ Tom Riddle. I now possess the small moments that make up a life, vital and inconsequential both; I have turned from a string of gleaming beads to broken glass. The pieces do not fit, their sharp edges are ill-fitting and even those that do still show their cracks or are scattered far, as across Vauxhall Road, like the remnants of some other man.

There is a warm hand tapping the side of my face, a soft but persistent collision that makes my skull reverberate with its force: _thwap, thwap, thwap_. I open my eyes. Far above me are the merest streaks of the night sky, peeking through massive, inky trees whose immense, snaking roots remind me of the Forbidden Forest. I… I need air… A low hissing drives into my ear: _"My master, my love, what has happened? It stung your Nagini…!"_

"A-are you–? Do you… do you need…?" another voice, a girl's voice. I turn my head toward its sound. A mass of dark brown hair curls messily above me, framing a rather pretty face discernable by the cool glow of her wand. Her eyes are wide with anxiety and she is holding a potion bottle in her other hand. She was holding me in her arms… _Hey: a song of a syllable and pleasant swaying motions, so different from Wormtail… _so familiar… her name sounded that way too, didn't it? _Hey… _"I think you might be in shock – just lie still. You're… you'll be_ fine_ – deep breaths! – I'm just g-going to elevate your legs…"

She's lifting my ankles… I don't… _where is my wand?_ "Who… where… _where is my wand?-!"_

"It's a-all right… your wand is _right here_ beside you… keep taking deep breaths… I'm Hermione – _Hermione Granger_ – you remember me…_?_" Hermione…_her soft skin made to be touched… her wonderful, wild hair everywhere like a maenad –_ _fierce girl; strawberries, arousal, old books, and wilderness_… _she shall __not __die! I cannot have… I will __not __tolerate…! She must not leave me…_ _I remember…_ I reach a hand up to touch her face lightly, my long fingers brushing against her cheek. She does not pull away, but nor does she respond. It is disappointing. I let my hand fall away. The worried frown reminds me of the nurse at the orphanage – I hated her insincere concern. For a second, I have a wonderful desire to find her and kill her, before I realise the woman is most likely long dead. _Death… _A shudder runs through me. _That place… the pain… no… no, no, no! _I cannot control the trembling that takes over my limbs, at the thought of returning to that place. No, I… Lord Voldemort… _will not_…! "Breathe!" Hermione commands. "You're going to be okay... drink this…" She brings the cold rim of a bottle to my lips – I can smell the saccharine aroma of a Calming Draft – and I obediently swallow down the potion, as foul as anything I taste.

I can feel my muscles going limp and it slowly becomes easier to breathe. Hermione Granger is kneeling beside me, still worried, and Nagini's smooth weight is a comfort across my lap. I give them both a tired nod. The girl grasps my shoulder, her small hand pressing down on the barely covered bone beneath my robes. "I can't believe you did it!" rapturous relief breaks through her worry like a sunrise. "You _did it_!" she repeats, the grin only widening. "I thought you'd died – I was so _worried_ – but you _did it_!" Hermione's expression is so proud, so unguardedly happy. I mirror her smile mechanically.

**L.V.H.G**

Lord Voldemort sits up, cross-legged, taking his bare feet off the rock I'd propped them up on, his brilliant eyes still glassy. Tears cling to his pearly skin from the pain of the ritual but they might as well have been drops of rain on the scales of a snake; Voldemort's cold flesh is utterly unsuited to the evidence still trailing down his flat, serpentine face. His chilly smile is a little mystified. I can't help but feel proud of him. I must have been wrong about the memories – he doesn't seem to have remembered after all. In fact, if anything he seems more uncertain. He's made so much progress: listening to me, not hurting the unicorn, and_ remorse_ – something I didn't think he had the capacity to feel. After hissing something to his snake, he stares at me again. "Hermione…" he whispers in that soft, sibilant tone of his, rolling his wand between his fingers in what I am beginning to suspect is a nervous habit.

"Hey…" I say gently, unable to use his name because of the Taboo. I'm so happy we succeeded, so happy he's alive and has made a step toward re-joining the human race. That the Horcrux is no longer suffering. The red eyes close for a moment and then long, pale arms are reaching for me, the trailing silk sleeves falling back. I don't move, staring at the irritated giant snake with its head in his lap. Voldemort quirks a hairless brow and gives another quick hiss, tipping Nagini out onto the grass, where she coils angrily. He extends his arms to me again, but he doesn't lean forward as the spindly white fingers gesture for me to come close. This isn't a demand… _this is a question._

My smile falls and my stomach flips over as I sit, paralysed, my joy slowly draining away. I've known he wanted me since the night at the Roberts' camp-ground when he kissed me. And_ I_ was the reason he felt remorse for killing Myrtle… I used his attachment to _me_ to get the Horcrux to reunite with his soul. But he's so terrifyingly unpredictable. What will this… hug... mean? I don't… I don't know if… if he will accept the word _no_. And I'm not… I've never… The thin mouth tightens at my lack of response, and the bony fingers – with their sharp bluish nails longer than mine – beckon more insistently. I feel trapped in the confines of that livid, expectant stare as I fiddle nervously with the locket around my neck.

So this is what it's like when everything hinges on you. No one is going to rescue me from this. I'm alone with Voldemort – the only thing keeping him from returning to his Death Eaters; The only thing keeping him from _anything_, really. I can't believe I didn't see – but no, I _did_ and I shut it out of my mind. We'd had to help the Horcrux and in the chaos that followed I'd allowed Voldemort's words to fall by the wayside: _I would have gone mad by now if it weren't for you... you who belong to no dream, no memory… you reassure me that, that I… that we do not exist simply to suffer and be suffered, that… however small… there is something else to reach for… _

I'm the only person he trusts… who can make him _feel_. I have this chance, this scary, _horrifying_ chance to stop Tom Riddle without a curse being cast. What I've wanted all along. But…but I _can't_ do this! I wanted… I _want_ Ron… _What about Ron? _My thumb moves distractedly over the emeralds around my neck. _I thought you were a Gryffindor, _whispers a steely, merciless voice in my head, _you were prepared to lay down your life to help Harry Potter defeat the Dark Lord and yet you blanch at a lesser sacrifice? All you desire is possible if you do this… How will you comfort yourself when your friends are dead and you realise you missed your chance to stop Lord Voldemort?_

**L.V.H.G**

I watch her with icy calm_. If she had been any girl at school she would have suffered for this. _I offer myself – _Lord Voldemort_ – to her and all she can do is stare as though caught in the gaze of a Basilisk. I gave her my word not to kill her, I promised her Harry Potter's life, I rescued that foolish Cattermole woman and the Muggle-borns, I slew Yaxley and the undersecretary in her defence, I spared the unicorn, and I have put up uncomplainingly with her _ridiculous_ moralising. I saw how easy she found it to smilingly embrace Potter, yet when_ I_ offer my arms her lovely smile drops away. I will_ not_ be so insulted. _"My Lord, let me eat her… please let me… so tasty…!"_

Determined to recover my dignity, I ignore Nagini and uncurl my legs to stand just as Hermione moves toward me, sending us both sprawling sideways. My back smacks against the roots of the oak, and I end up with a face-full of Hermione's hair: in my mouth and up my nostrils. I cough out hair as I attempt to disentangle myself but only succeed in catching my fingers up in knots, making Hermione yelp in pain. Eventually I manage it and roll sideways, beside her. We stare at each other. "Your hair is _impossible_," I inform her shortly.

She opens her mouth, gapes for a moment, and then splutters childishly: "W-well at least_ I_ have some!" Hermione looks ridiculous and her indignation only makes it more amusing. This Muggle-born so unlike any girl I have ever encountered - nothing like silly little Ginevra Weasley. Nor is she particularly beautiful – pretty, _yes_ – but certainly not as good-looking as many of the girls I knew at Hogwarts... and yet she entrances me. Her cheeks are bright pink and the infamous mane is everywhere, full of twigs and leaves. How ludicrous this entire situation is! My ire dissolves into laughter. Hermione's gobsmacked reaction to my sudden mirth only makes it more amusing.

**L.V.H.G**

Voldemort bursts out laughing. His high-pitched laughter would be girlish if it wasn't so inhumanly cold, like the laughter of a Banshee. I think he's still recovering from shock because he gets louder and more hysterical as he laughs, rolling onto his back in the dirt, his red eyes closed tight. Clearly one dose of Calming Draught is insufficient for someone as unstable as Voldemort. Either that or he's already building up a resistance to it. He moves back to gaze at me, still cackling madly. "Isn't… it…" he manages gasp out, "amusing… that I… and… you… a m – a mu….!" He tries to frame the words but is overcome, clutching his sides, shrieking with helpless laughter.

I stare at him, bewildered by just how fast he can go from hyperventilating to affectionate to irritated to murderous to hysterical. I'd hoped that what we'd just done would work a change for the better, but it seems to have made him even more unstable, constantly pulling the rug out from under me with his mercurial temper. But after everything that's happened, I find myself chuckling too at the stupid insults we've just traded and craziness and impossibility of the choice I'm about to make, knowing the alternative to laughter would be helpless despair. The light of my wand goes out as we laugh together on the floor of the Forbidden Forest because there's nothing else to do. I give my hopelessness over to it, tears streaming down my face, my insides grieving and exhausted.

His arms are suddenly around me and in the unlit, moonless gloom of the dark forest his eyes appear a deep reddish-purple. He pulls me close until my head rests in the curve of his neck and his still uncontrolled breathing is loud against me. _How will you comfort yourself when your friends are dying and you realise you missed your chance to stop Lord Voldemort? _All my emotions are spent – there's nothing left to resist with. "My Hermione…" Voldemort murmurs above me, his sibilant voice hoarse and oddly plaintive. He gently pulls my head back by my hair, until I'm looking straight at his otherworldly, serpentine face. "You _are_ mine, are you not?" Fingers ghost possessively over my hair and I can't stop myself from shivering.

_This is the moment._ Unless I draw back now I will be committed to this frightening obsession which may or may not hold the key to ending the war. I have to be careful. He needs reassurance and I'm his only link to humanity. He needs to believe in love and I… I can't let that shatter; can't let that strange, somehow innocent part of him die. "Yes…" I reply in a very small voice.

I feel the delicate brush of his sigh just before his flat nose strokes up my cheek and his mouth catches the edge of my lip. Startled, I gasp as something cold and scaly draw itself over my leg, making me cling to Voldemort. There is the sudden, deafening _crack_ and claustrophobic darkness of apparition –

– We unravel in the rough saline grasses of a cliff-top, beneath a sky full of stars. Far below, I can hear the distant sounds of waves crashing against rock and sand. The beauty of the harsh landscape is as stark as the man holding me against him, the silk of his black robes fluttering in the cold sea breeze. Nagini is hissing furiously, or perhaps that's the wind whistling through the grass around us. "Where are we?"

But a pale finger presses against my lips and a soft "_Shhhh_…" in my ear is almost lost in the furore of the ocean. Warm, nibbling kisses are slowly traversing my neck with a gracile sensuality that robs me of breath. I had imagined Voldemort's affections would be as briskly efficient and as nightmarish as his spellwork and – having braced myself for a brutal onslaught – find I'm undone by the gentle ministrations which trail upwards along my jaw to terminate as my ear is deftly pinched between his teeth. Shudders run through me as he continues to playfully nip the earlobe I had no idea was so sensitive. Neither the innocent kisses with Viktor, nor running away from Cormac, nor the few tentative moments shared with Ron, and especially not the fairly clinical discussions I've had with my mother, have prepared me for the terrifying magic Lord Voldemort is working on my body.

_Was this the sort of thing Lavender and Parvati used to gossip about whilst I was busy doing my homework? _I want to slap him and fling off his heavy weight that has me pinned down. It's _intolerable_ that Voldemort – _of all people_ – is making my insides clench and writhe like this. Now he's transferred his attentions to the other ear and one of his long-fingered hands is moving beneath my top. _"Don't!"_ I squeal, "Where _are _we? Someone could _see us!"_

"_No one_ is going to see us, darling." Voldemort's breathes the words into my mouth, "We're quite alone on this swell stretch of coastline…"

His large hand continues its journey upward, slipping under my bra. I don't have time to consider how strange it is to hear Voldemort using old-fashioned muggle slang because he suddenly exposes my midriff to the freezing wind, making me scream and try to pull my cotton top back down. The Dark Lord brushes my hands away and covers me with his body, teeth and tongue circling my right nipple, making me yelp even more. It feels awful and ticklish and wonderful all at once. "Stop it! _Stopitstopitstopit!_" I cry.

My top is smoothed back down and Voldemort's red eyes gaze up at me leisurely, his head tilted sideways like a curious child, a smile twitching in the corners of his mouth. "Mmm?"

**L.V.H.G**

"I… um… d-don't you think this is happening a… a bit – I mean, a bit _fast_?"

I can _hear_ the blush in Hermione's breathless voice. Of course, she is quite correct, but I wasn't about to cease my progress exploring her loveliness until I received more than token protests. Then a horrible and very possible thought occurs to me. "You're not one of those girls who insists on being married, are you?"

Her eyes widen in surprise: "_What?_ No! _No_, it's just, well, I've… I've only known you for a little over a week…"

"But you _are_ mine." I wrap myself around her, delighting in her smell and her warm, soft figure. "You have no other beaux?" She shakes her head and I sit up and pull her over so that her head rests in my lap, unclasping my cloak for her use as a blanket and casting a heating charm on my robes so that we may both converse in comfortable warmth. "I must warn you, Hermione, that if you present me with rivals I shall be obliged to ensure they meet the most exquisitely painful deaths imaginable," I tell her tenderly as I smooth her wild hair away from her face. Nagini is still circling us, sulky at Hermione's intrusion but mostly silent after my earlier rebuke, only making the odd complaint about the lack of rodents up here and tasting the air meaningfully in the direction of Hermione. I gaze at the canopy of stars spread out across the dark water and point south-east across the sea with my wand, "There's Jupiter – between Gamma Piscium and Cetus…"

"Oh yes," Hermione voices faintly, sounding rather overwhelmed, "I always enjoyed Astronomy. Harry and Ron dropped it after fifth-year…" she shifts, attempting to sit up but I press her shoulders back down. "Um… you haven't told me where we are."

I contain the anger that simmers in my chest at the mention of Potter and his red-headed companion. "Near a place I once had an outing to as a child. At the time I was curious about the view from the cliffs… I can faintly make out Neptune too… right beside Deneb Algedi…"

"_Look_," Hermione struggles to sit up and this time I make no move to stop her, "you – you don't get to just… you can't do… what you just did… and then start pointing out planets!"

"What did you have in mind? I was under the impression that stargazing was generally considered romantic by young witches… although I own that such impressions may be fifty years out of date."

She stares at me in obvious disbelief, still wrapped in my cloak, lost for words. Clearly customs have moved on. I wait patiently and eventually Hermione manages to find her voice and it all tumbles out in a rush: "First of all, I really _don't_ want to think about the fact that you're _half a century_ older than me and – secondly – you can't just threaten anyone who might ever want me with _death_, and – thirdly – we haven't even clarified what _exactly_ it _was_ that just happened!"

"Well, then, I shall explain in the clearest terms possible." I say mildly, vaguely amused by her outburst. I lean over and wave my wand, banishing nature's debris from her hair. She is silent, her eyes on me. "I asked you a certain question to which you replied in the affirmative. This led me to conclude that we were now pursuing an exclusive liaison and I acted accordingly. When you asked me to stop, I complied with your request and attempted to further a suitably romantic atmosphere. Is there some problem?" I do not deign to address Hermione's point about my threat to kill anyone who attempts to take her from me; a promise which I have every intention of keeping.

**L.V.H.G**

"…Is there some problem?" The way he says those words leaves no doubt he believes himself capable of dealing with any impediment I might have. It's the kind of coldly matter-of-fact tone he might use before casually murdering someone. _Don't say anything, _the equally cold voice of my self-directed mission tells me, _pick your battles – as with the unicorn. Only contradict him when you need to. All the time he's thinking about you is time he's not spending going back to his Death Eaters, who are surely in complete disarray after tonight's events. You are saving lives, Hermione._

"No… it's just I've never b-been with anyone before and you… surprised me…"

He pulls me into his arms again, and this time I try to relax into his grasp, although my heart is pounding. "You have _never…?" _Voldemort repeats, letting the question hang in the air. "It _was_ fate that brought me to you…" The pale face is filled with a frightening greed. The long fingers cup my cheek and his expression softens. "You need not fear, Hermione. I shall mind your chastity until you are ready to give it to me."

**L.V.H.G**

…_It was midday and the sun was unbearable. I shielded my eyes from the glare as I walked along the dusty road. There was singing in the little stone church, but I hadn't come to join the service or bring flowers to a grave. Sunday: I didn't think of it. For me, the days of the week blended together, irrelevant. I could hear the off-key singing and the sound of the organ. _"…Bring me my bow of burning gold..."_ Out of habit, I brushed my fingers across the emeralds set into the locket resting around my neck as I walked through the graveyard, staring at the summer flowers… _

"Bring me my spear! O-oh clouds, unfold!"_ I don't know why I was drawn back to this place, some sentimental feeling for the muggle village where I killed my father? It has been such a long time since my years at Hogwarts. I have travelled all over the world, and spoken to the keepers of the ancient dark places of power, learned from the finest magical scholars, and experimented with spells far beyond the petty dreams of ordinary wizards. My thoughts are larger now, my ambitions broadened by the knowledge gained on my travels. _

_I laughed, listening to the tuneless hymns I remembered from my childhood. Perhaps I too, am looking for guidance? I stood in front of the grave of my father and grandparents; no one has left flowers on their graves, it seems_. "… Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand…"

"_Not goin' to church?" chuckled a rough voice which caused me to turn, drawn out of my reverie. A shaggy-looking man leaned against a gravestone, smoking. His unshaven skin was a motley yellow from nicotine and his suit was patched and filthy. _

"…In England's green and pleasant land!"

"_No," I answered him, "I don't believe in God."_

_He gave a wheezing laugh. "Then what're ya doin' in a churchyard, eh?" He exhaled a noxious cloud: grey smoke mixing with his grey hair._

"…When peace like a river, attendeth my way…"

"_None of your business." This irreverence from a muggle tramp!_

"_Some say ol' Frank saw a strange yun man the night 'fore the Riddles died. Dark haired 'n pale, some say. Why are ya visitin' their graves, hnn? Come te gloat, 'ave ya?"_

_And then I had that wonderful feeling, that everything was right with the world and my path clear. I had kept my locket empty to remind me of the ambitions I had yet to fulfil in Britain, to keep me from the temptation of never returning. Now, I mused, I had no need for such a keepsake. A death on sanctified ground… muggles called that a curse, did they not? How amusing… "Why yes. So kind of you to remember…" I reached into my pocket and walked toward him, "…To me, of course, if seems like only yesterday…"_

"_Er, look, I didn't…!-?"_

"…Let this blest assurance control…"

_The green was muted in the daylight, softer. The man fell from the stone he had been perched on – motionless – his cigarette lost in the grass. I smiled down at him and began the complicated spellwork, taking Slytherin's locket out from under the collar of my robes and touching it with the tip of my wand. I had committed myself. I would remain in England and attend to the ascendancy of Lord Voldemort._

"…It is well… it is well… with my soul!"

**L.V.H.G**

Although I'm tired, I find it impossible to sleep, not matter how many times and I turn over and readjust my pillow. We pitched the tent on the edge of the cliff, with all my protective spells, rather than Voldemort's powerful dark wards. I realise that was quite a compliment coming from him. Voldemort had given me a lingering kiss on the cheek, murmured a good night and gone to his own room hours ago, leaving Nagini on guard duty.

So many things insist on replaying through my mind: the kiss I almost shared with Ron at Bill and Fleur's wedding, the ramifications of all the complicated choices I'd made in the last few hours, and the tingling I could still feel where Voldemort's mouth had been. I press my arms across my chest, flattening my breasts, denying this strange awakening.

_An exclusive liaison_… Rita Skeeter would have a field day. I can see it now: _The devious Miss Granger, not content with being the long-time girlfriend of the Chosen One, Harry Potter (a match which broke the heart of Bulgarian Quidditch superstar-seeker Victor Krum), is now in an exclusive liaison with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself! The plain but ambitious Muggle-born witch has clearly cast her vote as to which of the two powerful wizards she thinks will come out on top… _Even thinking about the poisonous words that woman might write makes me feel sick.

I'm bound to this now – I have to see it though even if no one else understands. I close my eyes again…

…_I'm standing in Professor Dumbledore's office but the Headmaster is absent. It is winter here and bluish flecks of snow drift past in the blackness outside, building up on the outside ledge. But there are none of the usual inventions and trinkets usually here. The office is plainer, more staid, and Fawkes' perch is missing. I shiver in the cold and wish I were wearing my Hogwarts robes instead of my pyjamas. "Professor…?" I call out uncertainly._

"_I'm afraid he won't be joining us," says a voice just as chill and dark as the weather outside. I spin round as a tall man steps out from behind a bookcase, wearing dark robes that swirl about him like the cloak of a Dementor. The man's skin is very pale beneath his neat, jet black hair and his gaunt features seem slightly waxen, blurred. His dark eyes are the most bloodshot I have ever seen. He gives me a subtle smile and moves to sit in the Headmaster's chair, offering me the seat facing the great desk. _

"_Who are you?" I ask, though I suspect I know the answer._

_He doesn't answer my question at first, leaning back in the throne-like chair, his mask-like face impassive while his eyes flicker across me as though searching for something. "My name," he answers after a long moment, "is Lord Voldemort – but I suspect that is not the answer to your question. Let us say rather that I am Slytherin's Locket – I believe that is how_ _you think of me."_

"_But how… are you – are you possessing me?" I startle back from him in horror._

"_Not precisely. But it has become necessary I speak with you. Sit." I find myself sitting down: his tone does not brook disobedience. He continues to scrutinise me with those stained eyes and then sniffs, as if dissatisfied with his conclusions. "Now, what did you do?" _

"_I'm sorry?" Perhaps I'm dreaming? "But how this is happening… are we in my mind?"_

_He glares at me, looking more and more like the Voldemort I know as his eyes burn fiercely red, "As it happens, we are in mine, not that it is of any consequence. Indeed, _you_ appear to be of even less consequence than I had imagined: a mere mudblood schoolgirl. Astonishing." _

"_I don't understand…?"_

"_You have bewitched the Dark Lord Voldemort – you have opened up a door inside his soul." His face has that ugly, greedy look I saw on Voldemort's face earlier, mixed with a patronising disgust; the lamps casting his thin face into sinister shadow._

_I shrink back, "I haven't done anything!"_

"_You call returning a Horcrux to its soul, nothing?" he sneers, leaning back in the chair. "I have been party to every idealistic notion that has been running through your head, and I know that you have not been putting Amortentia in that precious Calming Draught of yours. So I ask you again, how did you make Lord Voldemort feel such emotion for you?"_

_I can see why it might be useful for them all to refer to themselves in the third person. "I don't know. I was… nice to him, I suppose…" _

"_Nice?" He twitches horribly and looks as he would like to throw up. "Nice…" he repeats, "you were… nice… to him?" For a moment his face is thick with rage, but then his bloody eyes pierce me again and he leans forward, a mechanical smile plastered across his face. "Hermione Granger, I want the same thing you do."_

"_You do?" The scepticism in my voice is so obvious even Grawp could have picked up on it._

"_Of course, why do you think I have been assisting you?" He chuckles at my reaction. "Did you think you worked out the process for reclaiming a Horcrux on your own? Or that you – a Gryffindor – could behave with such cold-blooded calculation as you displayed tonight?" He continues to smile his terrible smile. "You want Voldemort out of the war and to reunite him with his Horcruxes. I have seen your heart, Hermione, you care so much about saving other peoples' lives you would give yourself to a murderer. Very well, I want to be free of this locket. I want you to do the same for me as you did for that poor diary."_

"_But I was already-!"_

_He holds up a hand for silence. "The Gaunt ring and Helena Hufflepuff's cup must come first. The Dark Lord has gained the memories of his first Horcrux. The shards _must_ be returned to Lord Voldemort in the order in which he created them. Doing otherwise would be… psychologically inadvisable, not to mention risk halting the process altogether. The door must remain open, understand?"_

"_Does his memory loss have something to do with his Horcruxes?" I ask curiously. _

_He rests his chin on his hand thoughtfully. "I have a plausible theory..." The bloodshot eyes gleam with chill humour. "Perhaps when you have done as I ask, I might tell you. Good night, Hermione Granger." _

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Hermione realises the cost of reuniting Voldemort with his Horcruxes and Voldemort continues the process of "minding" Hermione's chastity…_


	14. The Fiendfyre Basilisk

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The fourteenth chapter of the rewrite. Once more, I apologise for how long it took me to write this. Basically, I had divided up the plot for this story into two sections and the last chapter marked the end of the first section. In my notes I have called the next few chapters "The Interlude" where romantic things start happening. However, I realised that I needed to fill these chapters with some actual well… let's call it _plot_. So I had a minor crisis and had to restructure things. Thank you to the anonymous reviewer Megs for giving me a polite but firm boot up the arse to get on with it. I'm going to say this to all of you: _I solemnly swear that I am going to finish this story. _I have even pulled a Rowling and _written the epilogue_! I love writing this and, seriously, I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. And, of course, a big _thank you_ to all of you lovely individuals who take the time to leave a review – you wonderful, wonderful people!

**Chapter Fourteen: The Fiendfyre Basilisk**

The tent is very quiet. The only noise is the regular wash of the sea, curling against the rocks. Hermione is – I now realise – still caught in the rhythm of Hogwarts: she awakens regular as clockwork, some part of her mind perhaps expecting to go down the Great Hall for breakfast before class. I, on the other hand, find it difficult to sleep on past five, a strange thing for a man so clearly designed for a nocturnal existence. Yet I have grown fond of this peaceful time when I am alone with my thoughts – small hours I did not value in my childhood.

I slip on my robes, the floor cold against my bare feet, and rub the hollows beneath my eyes: I must have slept for all of one hour. There are so many things in my mind. It feels over-full, disordered, spilling over at the edges and, even though I have knowledge of so little of my life, it would be easy to become lost my own recollections. In that respect this pathetic little tent is useful: its once-bright patchwork quilts, ugly bunk-beds, and the stench of old cat that never quite goes away, are all alien to my memories, offering an oddly reassuring anchor to reality.

Hermione is – as predicted – fast asleep. She lies on her side, lips slightly parted, with her beautiful, mad hair escaping from a loose plait. I feel… so _much_ for her. It astonishes me. Of course, there were girls at Hogwarts who were only too delighted to receive the attentions of a handsome Slytherin prefect. Like all young men I had been curious. I had desired to master this art which could flaw the cleverest girls and denoted such status amongst boys. Yet ultimately my experiments were disappointing. The Basilisk of Slytherin provoked in me more ecstasy than any girl might offer. I assumed that I was above such basic pleasures – that I needed rarer stimulation than carnality.

But here she lies, fascinating even in her sleep. So much of me wishes to forswear her, to flee this dependence, even to break my promise and dispose of her now that I have more of myself. Yet it is impossible – instead I want more of _her_. She reminds me of serpents; that secret, cold joy of possessing something others do not. I want her to rush to me as she once rushed to Harry Potter, who will experience the impotent, crushing horror of Billy Stubbs staring up at the disembowelled remains of his beloved rabbit – yet this pretty rabbit will be alive even in its death and it will tell Potter it was glad of its sacrifice. I shake my head, _was it Ginevra who told me Hermione had buck teeth? _I subject her mouth to critical inspection. Her teeth are not over-large at all._ What a spiteful little girl you were, Ginny. And all because clever Hermione Granger was the best friend of the famous Harry Potter._

I smile at the thought of inadvertently doing the Weasley girl a favour, provided she has not expired from critical stupidity in the intervening years, and retreat back to the lounge without the Calming Draught I'd entered Hermione's room for. Nagini is curled up on the sofa, one golden eye open toward the entrance, obeying my instructions to guard the tent. Twirling my wand, I tap my left temple, feeling my magic swirl round me, bringing my emotions down to comfortably arctic levels. I have been so foolish regularly dosing myself with a potentially addictive tranquilising potion when dear Nagini told me the answer when I first awoke in this state: _you need only your wand._ I lean over and run a hand approvingly along her scales. _"Come, Nagini, let us go and find you a meal before Hermione wakes." _It's hard to believe I was ever disgusted by the idea.

"_There is no food here but skinny-noisy-horrid-stinky-birds. Why can I not eat the girl?"_

"_I intend to mate with her," _I inform her strictly,_ "and you are to protect her as you would Lord Voldemort."_

"_But, my master, my love…!–?" _My snake is angry, jealous and horrified in equal measures. It is quite amusing.

"_That is my final word. Now… what do you say to a nice fat muggle?"_

**L.V.H.G**

Voldemort is sitting at the end of my bed, a place of delicious-looking food in those impossibly long fingers. The red eyes are patient and unblinking. I sit up, still shaken by the disturbing dream and uncomfortable with the idea that Voldemort has been watching me sleep. The golden locket is lying innocently on the small bedside table. "What is it?" Voldemort's high voice is not designed to express consideration, but the harsh tone softens to become something rather airy and quiet._ I have to think about this first._

"Is that Béchamel sauce?" It smells gorgeous and is a more that welcome excuse not to talk about the locket. I reach for the plate and he nods. And then it occurs to me: _I can't believe Voldemort is the first man to ever make me breakfast in bed. _Some kind of white fish with heavenly sauce on warm bread; _it should be illegal for someone so evil with no ability to taste to make such amazing sauce. _"Thank you – did you catch the fish too?" I couldn't even taste the transfiguration this time. Maybe he'd summoned food instead? The bread was freshly baked; he was probably depleting the contents of the Malfoy larder.

"Yes," he gives me one of his coldly mysterious smiles, his crimson eyes glittering. "Do not fret. You can answer my question after you have finished eating." His reptilian pupils flick across to Slytherin's locket and back to me and the thought occurs to me, like a cube of ice sliding down the back of my neck, _has he remembered how to do Legilimency_?

I take the opportunity to stare at the fish on my plate and do some serious thinking. _Don't look him in the eyes. Should I tell him about the locket? _Unlike an ordinary dream, the vision has not faded at all. I can still see the waxen mockery of a handsome face leering at me across the desk and hear his cold voice: _The Dark Lord has gained the memories of his first Horcrux. The shards _must _be returned to Lord Voldemort in the order in which he created them. Doing otherwise would be… psychologically inadvisable, not to mention risk halting the process altogether. The door must remain open… _So Voldemort has the memories of his diary.

But that means Voldemort can either regain his soul or stay ignorant of his memories – not both. Even as his spirit would grow more whole, he would become more the Lord Voldemort everyone fears. It's hard enough dealing with him _now_, let alone with all his memories… _the door must remain open… _What did that mean, his ability to feel remorse? His ability to feel for _me_? But Voldemort has been having out-of-sequence recollections almost the whole time… Was the Horcrux afraid that if Voldemort absorbed, say, Nagini then he would remember too much to be able to feel any remorse…? The ring and the cup were made when Tom Riddle was still very young. But the locket was selfish, it didn't appear to feel anything for the other Horcruxes; it had sounded disgusted by the fate of the 'poor diary' more than anything else and even more disgusted by Voldemort's feelings for me. The Horcrux might have been telling the truth about Voldemort's sanity, but be betting on us getting that far and then keeping the rest to ensure its immortality. _But, of course, that must be its plan!_ It wanted the authentic Lord Voldemort back, but it wanted to be free more. It probably thought that once it had reunited with the Dark Lord_ the_ _door_ would close. It might be right about that too.

I continue to shovel in the delicious fish. Dumbledore destroyed the ring. I don't like the idea of anything suffering like the portion of soul in the diary had; that awful, pitiable, mutilated _thing_. And if Voldemort and I manage to reunite him with the cup and the locket… then Harry won't have to destroy them… but it means Voldemort will regain his memories – and what will happen then?

"I am disturbed," Voldemort's glacial voice cuts into my thoughts, _you can say that again_, "what is it that has you so preoccupied?"

_If he really has remembered Legilimency then I can't lie. _"The locket… it… talked to me last night."

He lifts the plate away from me, placing it carefully on the floor and moving closer as his lean fingers take my hand. _"Tell me,"_ he says gently, pressing my fingers beneath his comfortingly, his clear voice hypnotic as the red eyes stare into my own, _"tell me, Hermione…"_

I tell him all of it. Everything. The words flow out of me and into that crimson gaze as if I had never considered concealing what I'd learnt. "… And I'm worried because Professor Dumbledore destroyed the ring and we don't know where the cup is, but you don't want to remember, and the locket thinks that he'll be able to–"

"_What did you say to me_?" His terrible voice creates silence. His fingernails dig sharply into my skin.

"The locket thinks…" I repeat and stop talking as Voldemort gives a long, drawn out hiss, his eyes wild. The bed creaks as he stands up, pacing the room furiously. The air is gathered with deadly magic and I don't dare move.

"_How many more have been destroyed – how many you have not told me of?–!"_

"That's all!" I yelp, "That's the only other one!"

**H.G.L.V**

"_Dumbledore!" _I spit out the three disgusting syllables. "Always _Dumbledore_!" I round on Hermione, who flinches back, as well she should! "_Why did you not tell me of this?_ –!"

"I – I thought – I mean, we've been so busy – I just assumed I'd t-told you!" I wish Dumbledore were alive so that I might kill him. _Albus Dumbledore is the greatest sorcerer in the world! Everyone says so… _Dumbledore who had always suspected me… Dumbledore had joined with Harry Potter in destroying my precious anchors to immortality… _mutilating_ them… And it comes back – the memories of that terrible white place, trapped in mindless unceasing torture, unable to move, unable to do anything but soundlessly scream. "It will be all right, we can help it, w-we can _save_ it…!"

The chill calming spell keeps me from screaming at her words and instead I am suffused with a deep and terrible dread as the vague possibility arises from my fractured memories – _had there been a ring in my hand as I trudged up the lane…?_ Had I written to myself of a ring…? I could not be sure… but she had said _the next Horcrux_, and I had planned, that summer I had planned… "Hermione…" I whisper, "_Hermione_, do you know whose death I used?"

"Your father… it was your father's death."

I bow my head: _of course it was_. I slowly lower myself back down onto Hermione's bunk as she watches me anxiously. Somewhere beyond there is another piece of myself, Lord Voldemort, most important and precious, which had been attacked, mutilated... Dumbledore had torn it from its vessel, had condemned it to the unspeakable… and Lord Voldemort could not help it. If only I had used some worthless, nameless man like the fisherman I'd fed to Nagini… like the tramp in the churchyard and countless others who were nothing to me. I could sooner forgive Harry Potter than regret Tom Riddle's death. _The despicable muggle who did not deserve the honour of siring Lord Voldemort! _

Hermione passes me one of the vials of Calming Draught she took from my servants' kitchen. I do not know what I would do were there not ice in my bespelled veins, forcing me to weigh everything with a leaden calm; but even that weight feels to much – it_ hurts –_ so I drink, grateful for anything to quell this panic turned ominous dread. A hand settles on my arm. Hermione in her pyjamas gingerly sitting closer to me, "We'll work it out," she tells me. "It's not hopeless… there's always something…" They had seemed so simple, so elegant – so much better than the troublesome Elixir; I would have died that night at Godric's Hollow had I relied on a Philosopher's Stone. It prolongs life, but it does not banish death, could not protect from incendiary bombs or Avada Kedavra. Like unicorn blood, it can keep you alive, but only if you survive in the first place. I do not regret splitting my soul, but if only I had been wiser, more discerning in my choice of the dead who would be honoured with the Horcrux rituals… "The locked seemed to think it was possible…"

I reach across and caress the emeralds. "It has no choice. Why do you think it offered you such incentives? It would not have reached out to you in the first place if it was not desperate." At this moment I do not care if my Horcrux has a theory on my amnesia; I feel besieged, helpless in the face of such an impossible task. I can no more forgive my father than cease to breathe. I glance at Hermione's worried features and slip the golden chain around my neck. "I will keep this – it will bother you no further." I do not like the idea of even another part of myself with Hermione. I take her waist as pull her into my lap, making her squeak. I press my face against the back of her neck, inhaling her wonderful smell. Her breath becomes shallow as my skin brushes against her nape. "You will not keep anything from Lord Voldemort. You will not conceal what you know about my Horcruxes or anything else. _Do you understand_, Hermione?"

"Yes…" comes the very small reply.

"Good. Now tell me everything Harry Potter knows about the pieces of my soul."

This turns out to be quite a lot, unfortunately. I think of the cave beneath these very cliffs, where little Amy and Denis learned what it meant to cross Tom Riddle; their satisfying, terrified screams in the echoing darkness of the black rocks. And I had apparently placed this locket there, in the secret cave we found when the tide was out. "…We couldn't figure out who it was – R. A. B., I mean – but I suppose the Horcrux knows. Apart from the locket and Nagini the only other one I know of is Hufflepuff's Cup. I've no idea who was killed to make your snake a Horcrux, but the Headmaster seemed to think that the cup was created from the death of the old woman you… stole it from."

Such fabulous treasures – how appropriate that my soul should be encased by such precious objects. Though useful, the diary had been a pauper's Horcrux; a memento fit for Tom Riddle, not Lord Voldemort. A hand strays to the locket around my neck, how long it had spent with those who sought to destroy it! Then to be worn by a horrible Ministry official who knew nothing of its true significance and wore it with her garish pink robes and probably left it during the night in a chintzy jewellery box. I shiver, remembering the desk draw.

As for the sixth, I knew what Hermione did not – how bitter Helena Ravenclaw had confessed to a sympathetic young student where she had hidden the lost diadem of Ravenclaw. Surely I would have made the journey to Albania and followed the instructions I'd so carefully prized out of the lady ghost? Were the two Horcruxes not in my possession still safe? Even if Harry Potter or Dumbledore have not discovered the rest of my secrets, there is still the mysterious R. A. B. who had discovered the cave before ever my old Transfiguration Master or Hermione's friend thought to do so. I have to find my other Horcruxes – I have to be_ sure_.

_Where would I hide a Horcrux?_ Two answers come easily: the Room of Hidden Things and the Chamber of Secrets – two of Hogwarts' rooms I alone had discovered. I push Hermione off me and pass her back her plate. "Finish your breakfast and get dressed, we're leaving."

"Where are we going?" she asks; her brown eyes wide as she stands and reaches for her wand, the fish forgotten on the bed.

"I want them all under my eye, where I can protect them." I tell her fiercely, "We are going to find the cup and the diadem."

She gasps in the information and then lets it rush out again just as fast: "The _diadem_? …You don't mean the _Lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw_?"

"Yes," I can't help the bitterness in my voice, even as I detect the shocked admiration in hers, "_the_ diadem." I glance down at the books stacked beside her bunk and one thick tome in particular. "I believe it's mentioned in_ Hogwarts: A History._"

**L.V.H.G**

I'm worried about him. He moves with terrible purpose, like a feral creature, but there's something wrong – the way in which he glances at Nagini, at Slytherin's Locket and even at me – as if worried we will all disappear if he does not check every minute; this manic instinct despite the serene expression on his flat, white face. "Do you think we should take Nagini with us to Hogwarts, Hermione?" he asks me quietly. "If somehow we are caught – if I have a seizure, and they catch her… yet I do not like to leave her behind…"

"School hasn't even started yet," I reassure him, "there will be hardly anyone there. No one will notice us if we're all invisible." _Except Harry, _I suddenly realise. If Harry were watching the Marauder's Map then he would see that Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger were at Hogwarts, no matter how invisible we were. But the map didn't show _real_ animals – only people – so Nagini will be safe if she stays out of trouble. I hope Harry won't see us – surely it's hardly likely he'd be watching the map before the start of term? I don't like being afraid of my own friends. I feel like I'm going behind their backs and terrible for not wanting them to know where I am. _As far as Harry and Ron know, I've been kidnapped by Voldemort. _Every time I think of sending a Patronus something happens and I forget, or I fail to cast the spell properly. It frustrates me that Harry can cast the charm so well and I have hardly managed silvery wisps in the last few days no matter how hard I try. I know I have the technique right, but somehow I can't manage to summon the happiness to make it corporeal. And, at the same time as I desperately want to see my friends again, I cringe at the thought of what they would say if they knew what I was doing. The Order wouldn't understand, couldn't believe, _no one_ could unless they'd seen it all with their own eyes. And Ron… if Ron knew I'd let Voldemort kiss me and…_ more_ than kiss me… he'd never look at me again. I set my jaw. _It doesn't matter if they don't understand as long as I do what's right. I'm helping everyone. I'm a Gryffindor, I have to be brave._

_What happens if I survive all this? _I shiver in the sea breeze, brushing my hair away from my face as it blows across my eyes. We stand together in the long, salty grass, staring out at the grey sea. The tent is once more folded away in my bag. Voldemort has his hood up and is wearing his tinted, stick-on glasses, his red eyes sensitive even on a day with such low, heavy clouds. There's something endearing about the way he looks in them, oddly sad, as if he were dressing up for a costume party. Nagini slides through the grass, a large bulge in her belly. Voldemort catches my gaze. "There's a farm a little back from the cliffs – as I understand it, Nagini helped herself to a young cow," he explains distractedly. "Hermione…" he reaches out with long, lean fingers. In the daylight, I can see the heavy veins that show through his pale skin, the dark tinge in his milky fingernails, as if he were suffering from hypothermia. He lifts my chin to meet his eyes. At least I know he isn't yet practising Legilimency, since the possibility of Harry being a Horcrux had haunted me through our conversation, and he had not seemed to – "_Hermione_," he repeats, more insistently, jogging me out of my thoughts as he bends down and a hand strokes through my hair as his mouth meets mine.

The awful thing is that it feels good to have someone so close to me, kissing me like this. Better than good. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him as any tall man bending down to press against my lips: Ron… or Viktor… or anyone really. And just as that thought strikes me I find myself mirroring his movements. He _does_ have lips: thin and colourless, little more than small rim of liminal skin, but there all the same. My teeth accidentally catch on that rim and Voldemort makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. I press my teeth down again, experimentally, and this time the sound is more drawn out, ending in a breathy hiss. But he pulls away, leaving me feeling appalled at my own behaviour and shocked that for about three seconds, I hadn't wanted it to end.

"We must go, my darling." Voldemort gives a silky murmur in my ear.

"Yes!" I exclaim decisively. "Yes, we o-ought to get moving." I really hope he can't see how red my face has gone through his darkened glasses. "Are… are you going to apparate us into Hogwarts, then? If you can get out of Malfoy Manor and the Ministry, I suppose you could apparate into Hogwarts too."

"No," he straightens, "_you_ are. I want to test to see if what I'm doing is a result of power or technique."

"Are you _crazy?"_ Redundant question, really. "I could _splinch_ us trying to get into Hogwarts! It's _completely_ unsafe and irresponsible! Absolutely not, I won't do it; I could end up dead and you could end up…" I fumble for the right word "…disembodied! _Honestly!"_ Voldemort's mouth twitches and I suddenly feel sure there is an amused glimmer hiding behind the black lenses. "Oh, you… you… _git! _That _wasn't_ funny!" But somehow I'm smiling, despite my irritation.

"Of course it wasn't." Voldemort agrees gravely, completely dead-pan. He offers me his arm and lets out a stream of Parseltongue, causing his familiar to slither toward us, wrapping her great body around the Dark Lord's legs. I take his hand, struggling to work out what I'm feeling and fighting the smile off my face as everything goes black–

–Magic twists and spits us out into damp darkness. The first thing I notice is the smell; the horrible, wretched, overpowering stench of decomposing flesh. _This is supposed to be Hogwarts?-!_ I gag and clamp my left hand over my nose and mouth and I draw my wand and cold wandlight spills into the gloom. We're in a stone hall, the ceiling vanishing into the shadows, supported by great cyclopean pillars, around which curl beautifully carved snakes, which seem to slither upwards. _We're in the Chamber of Secrets, _I realise. _So the smell must be…_

Voldemort takes off the glasses and stuffs them into a pocket and walks forward across the wet floor toward the enormous corpse lying at the feet of a giant statue of Salazar Slytherin which stands at the end of the chamber, his empty eyes gazing far above our heads. The Dark Lord crouches beside the massive skull of the Basilisk, its rotted flesh no longer recognisable as scales, one dirty yellow fang visibly broken off. "They left her body to rot…" his high voice is quiet and disturbingly level. "They didn't even harvest it for ingredients… just… just _left_ her…" There are several dead rodents lying beside the dead serpent – obviously taking a bite of the poisonous corpse was a bad idea. It's hard to believe this was the creature with the terrible lamp-like eyes that petrified me. I could still remember clutching the mirror tightly with sweaty fingers and the abrupt movement in the glass. "Why… why would anyone just _leave_ the Basilisk of Slytherin… she… she deserves _respect!_"

_Oh, well, lucky we've got such a__ large __supply of Basilisk fangs, then… _I remember Ron saying back at The Burrow. I shake my head, _what_ _complete idiots we were!_ I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier! That must be why Professor Dumbledore left the Basilisk here just over four years ago, because he knew the other fangs could still be used to destroy another one of Voldemort's Horcruxes! Still… it's completely _disgusting_.

Spidery fingers touch the head of the snake. Voldemort's eyes are closed and his head is bowed, he seems unconscious of the fact that his long digits are sinking into its putrid flesh. His white skin is luminous in the gloom as he lowers his hood and brings his own serpentine nose close to the beast's own, whispering quietly in Parseltongue.

I feel I shouldn't be seeing this, shouldn't be witnessing the Heir of Slytherin's private moment of grief for the dead Basilisk. But I wonder if Voldemort realises that it's _his_ fault the historic beast of his ancestor is dead, or if he just blames Harry and Professor Dumbledore for the results of his actions? It _is _rather horrible that the Headmaster left the Basilisk here to rot though, even if he thought it would be useful. I creep tentatively over to stand beside Voldemort, but just as I uncomfortably consider laying a hand on his shoulder or saying something, he suddenly stands, startling me. Gesturing for me to step back, he draws his wand solemnly. The yew wand moves gracefully and flames erupt with a roaring, billowing noise that fills the whole chamber, curling in the air like a clutch of entwined serpents, their dancing fire illuminating the vaulted ceiling far above us and Voldemort's eyes glistening like implacable rubies.

_That's Fiendfyre_, I realise. It's breath-taking how easily he manages to control such incredibly dangerous Dark magic. The flames merge together into a giant simulacrum of the dead Basilisk, its coils burning away the corpse of its predecessor, twining fittingly around the gargantuan statue of Salazar Slytherin. I have to retreat in the face of the glare and unbearable heat. Nagini slithers back too, watching her master bid farewell to his ancient familiar. But Lord Voldemort does not step back. He stands completely still at the brink of the towering ophidian bonfire, his swirling black robes cast in inky silhouette against the brilliant flames. I don't know how long he stays there, staring up at his fiery recreation of the Basilisk, saying farewell to the monster that once dwelled within this chamber.

Eventually, the fire sinks lower and lower as the Fiendfyre Basilisk settles its head comfortably atop its coils, as if going to sleep. It must have been burning for at least half an hour – my feet are starting to hurt. The flame serpent is little but embers in the ashes of the true Basilisk. I walk over to Voldemort, my footsteps sounding loud against the stone. I clear my throat to say something but the Dark Lord shakes his head, "Sssh – _watch_." He's staring into the dark ashes.

There's a shifting in the dust and a tiny blunt, pale head appears, its glowing red eyes staring beadily up at us. Then several more pop their heads up through the ashes. Voldemort gives them a fond hiss and the Ashwinders chatter back to him as they slither off in different directions, their grey scales leaving trails in the Basilisk's ashes as they seek secluded corners of the chamber in which to lay their eggs. New life springing from destruction. It's quite poetic… or would be if Ashwinder eggs didn't hatch so much as _combust_ within a very short time after being laid. "Are you planning to burn the whole chamber?" I ask Voldemort.

"Stone does not burn," he answers tiredly. "Besides, what is the Chamber of Secrets now, besides an empty room?"

**L.V.H.G**

"How did you know there wasn't a Horcrux in the chamber?" Hermione asks as we walk together through the tunnels. I do not wish to apparate, but to travel these ancient pathways one last time.

"I did have that thought at first," I explain, "but then I realised it couldn't be so. I would never have hidden a piece of my soul in a place into which I planned to lead another. The diary was enough." We reach the end of the path, leading to the steep pipe up which I had always ridden the Basilisk, clinging tight to its brilliant scales. I wonder whether it would not be best to abandon my sentimentality and apparate. Then I have a curious, whimsical thought; wishing to test how far my powers stretch the boundaries of magic. I levitate Nagini, who complains bitterly at such undignified treatment, and turn to my companion as we both stare up at the impossible climb. "Do you think wizards ought to be able to fly, Hermione?"

"No spell yet devised enables wizards to fly unaided in human form," Hermione quotes. "It's the first sentence of Wisp's _Quidditch Through the Ages_." But despite the prompt assurance in her voice, there's a curious expectancy in her brown eyes as she looks at me and then back at the stone pipe and then to me again. It would be a shame to disappoint her belief in Lord Voldemort's abilities to bend the laws of magic to his will. I raise my arms and focus, not as I was taught at school, but in this new way I have learned – demanding my magic execute my intention. And it happens, as it did when I was a child, my power smoothly obeys and I rise into the air. "That could be simple levitation," Hermione points out calmly, "you're only floating about two feet off the ground."

"Well," I answer, offering her my right hand in a suitably gallant fashion that would surely impress any Gryffindor, "there's only one way to discover the truth of the matter."

She gives me a nervy little grin and takes my hand. I raise her into the air and wrap a hand around her waist. And we fly up the tunnel – as quick as any broomstick – Hermione's arms are flung tightly around my neck in a desperate attempt to hold on as Nagini hurtles along behind us, shrieking murder at me. _"Open!" _I hiss, as we reach the blocked end of the pipe, which opens up to the dull ceiling of the familiar girls' bathroom. I settle Hermione's feet on the tiles and close the entrance to the chamber.

"That was _amazing!_" Hermione gasps, "we _really_ need to research how it's possible that you're doing all of this. I mean… if you learnt how to do that on your travels, or if you developed the first spell for pure flight and you instinctively remember how to cast it… or if you really _are_ more powerful the Merlin – but surely that can't be the case because why were you matched by Professor Dumbledore? Or has this only happened after your memory–?" She suddenly stops, gazing searchingly around the bathroom. "The floor isn't flooded," she says slowly, "…where's Moaning Myrtle?" We both listen: the bathroom is completely quiet. "_Umbram Revelio_," she whispers. Nothing happens. "You don't think what we did… could it have let her pass on?"

"Perhaps," I reply, "but it's equally possible Olive Hornby has just died or that Myrtle is merely fortuitously haunting another part of the castle. It is of little concern to us." And I raise my wand again, coating the three of us in perfect invisibility. "We need to get to the seventh floor."

"The seventh floor…" Hermione repeats thoughtfully, finding my hand so that we don't lose each other. "Do you mean we're going to the Room of Requirement?"

"The Room of Requirement?" I echo hollowly, fear quickening my heart.

"Yes – opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. We used it as a secret headquarters in fifth year. Umbridge… the woman you killed at the Ministry… was taking over the school and refusing to teach proper Defence Against the Dark Arts. So me and… w-well anyway, we had the idea to start our own defence club and the Room of Requirement provided the perfect place and hardly anyone knew about it. And Malfoy used it in sixth year…" she descends into brooding silence as we ascend together the deserted shifting staircases, completely robbing me of any feelings of nostalgia as I realise with horror that students have been regularly tramping in and out of my secret room for_ years_. "In any case, all you have to do is think really hard about what you need and walk past it three times and the entrance will appear. A friend once told me that he'd heard the Headmaster had found it by accident because he'd really needed to use the bathroom and–"

"_Hermione,"_ I order icily, "just because it is not yet September does _not _mean the castle is uninhabited. _Be quiet_."

Which turns out to be fortuitous because at that moment – just as we reach the fourth floor – Severus Snape strides round the corner, his face set in a dark scowl between the curtains of his black hair and his robes billowing about him, forcing myself and Hermione to spring apart in order to let him pass down the staircase without bowling us over. Severus pauses several steps down from us, his head turning slightly as if listening for something and I stay put on the landing, hoping he did not overhear our voices. Hermione will almost certainly not like it if I kill him. But, after a moment, the man continues down the staircase and eventually ought of sight. "What's _he_ doing here? He's wanted for _murdering the Headmaster!" _Hermione whispers furiously.

_So Severus was the lucky man who stole my fantasy. _I fumble around for her hand. "You are _wanted_ for murder, Hermione. He who controls the Ministry of Magic controls Hogwarts and Severus is one of my servants. Enough of this, he's gone and we have our own business to attend to." I can't see her, but I feel sure her eyes are narrowed and her wild hair is crackling in annoyance.

**L.V.H.G**

It _is_ the Room of Requirement he's taking us to. He must have thought he was the only one to discover it – which was probably why he snapped at me earlier. It's… unexpectedly naïve of Tom Riddle to have thought that – and sort of sad, really. I tactfully decide not to say anything as we enter the room. I've never seen it like this although Harry once described it: piled high with all manner of things like a gigantic abandoned attic. There are thousands and thousands of old books and pieces of broken furniture and I can see, partially covered up by boxes, one of the pieces from Professor McGonagall's giant chess set. People must have been hiding things here for _centuries_!

There's a cold feeling of magic, like someone pulling a sheet off your bed while you're in it, and I see Lord Voldemort beside me also gazing out at the huge piles of stuff. Nagini is still invisible. "I'm guessing a Summoning Charm isn't going to work?" I ask faintly – it will be like finding a needle in a haystack… several haystacks.

He shrugs, "I have no idea which exact enchantments I placed on whatever object might be in this room. I may not have hidden either the cup or the diadem here at all."

"_Accio Diadem of Ravenclaw! Accio Hufflepuff's Cup!_" Nothing happens. I hadn't really expected any Horcruxes to fly through the air, but it had been worth a try. "Can't you… sense them or something?"

Voldemort glances away, not meeting my eyes. "They have been… separated from me. I cannot sense them at all… I always thought I would feel their destruction, but it seems I was… mistaken. It is different with Nagini but even then I can only see her own memories. I suspect you, since you have not become so accustomed to the aura of Dark magic, have more chance of sensing them than I." He stands taller and glides forward toward one of the small pathways through the jumble. "In any case, let us divide ourselves and begin our search."

I wander down the in opposite direction, trying to remember what the diadem had looked like in the paintings I'd seen of Rowena Ravenclaw and keeping an eye out for anything gold, resisting the strong temptation to have a look at some of the books. There are jewels, hats, broomsticks, Fanged Frisbees and even a huge stuffed Troll! I don't touch anything, wary many of the items might be cursed. The oddest looking bottles and smashed contraptions meet my gaze as I continue to walk what feels like a labyrinth of old junk. There's even an ugly, pockmarked bust of a frowning warlock atop which someone has placed a dusty wig and a discoloured old tiara for a joke… wait… _a tiara? _"I found it!" I cry out. "I found–!" I yelp and stumble as Voldemort suddenly appears right behind me with a loud crack. Hands reach out to steady me and we both peer closely at what could be the Horcrux.

It reminds me of the Goblin-made tiara that Ron's rude Aunt Muriel lent Fleur for the wedding. It has the same intricate loveliness, even though it's obvious that it hasn't been cleaned in years. For a second, I have a girlish desire to see what it looks like on my head, but then I make out the words engraved beautifully across the metal: _'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.'_

"I don't think that's true," I say thoughtfully, staring at the diadem.

"You're not a Ravenclaw," Voldemort answers as he extricates it from the old wig.

"Think about it. People called me the cleverest witch of my year – but I knew even in my first year that there were things that were more important. I was miserable for a lot of that year and yet I had better grades than anyone else. There are more important things than cleverness."

Voldemort is busy charming the diadem clean. "I know, Hermione. I wasn't in Ravenclaw either."

"Don't you think it's interesting that so many of the people who won the Barnabas Finkley Prize _weren't_ in Ravenclaw? I mean, it's the prize given to the student with the highest N.E.W.T. scores – shouldn't more Ravenclaws have won it?"

Tilting his head, Voldemort holds the diadem loosely in one hand and his red eyes seem curiously knowing. "Possibly a Ravenclaw might devote more time to considering the magical concepts he or she was studying than memorising the textbooks and pouring over the honours lists of previous years. The desire for glory is a trait most common in Gryffindors and Slytherins and the list, at least in my day, reflected that." He holds up the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, silvery and perfect, even more beautiful than the Prewett tiara. "Would you like to try it on?"

"I think I've had enough trouble with Horcruxes in the last twenty-four hours, to be honest."

"It won't be able to possess you on the strength of a few minutes atop that marvellous hair of yours. Come!" He beckons me close and moves his wand across my head and I can feel my hair shifting, becoming glossy and smooth like it does when I use half a bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. I feel ridiculous and try to fight off a blush. Finally, Voldemort sets the diadem on my head as if crowning me a queen and conjures a mirror. He's made my hair look like Rowena Ravenclaw's in her most famous portrait. It would look rather regal and elegant if I weren't wearing jeans and a cardigan.

"I don't feel any more intelligent than I did before," I tell Voldemort, who is watching me, red eyes slightly narrowed. I think about the motto on the diadem. Perhaps it didn't actually mean wit, so much as wisdom. I look at Voldemort: one of the most brilliant wizards ever to attend Hogwarts, who could do things no one else could but was unable to understand simple morals; broken, pitiless and wretchedly unhappy. I think about what I told Harry before he went through the flames to confront Quirrel: _friendship and bravery. _Now I don't think that's quite right. Bravery is important, but friendship is far more so. And Dumbledore said Voldemort had never wanted a friend. I remember him gazing fondly down at the Ashwinders – snakes had accepted Tom Riddle and made him feel special when people had not. I don't think Dumbledore was quite as wise as he thought either.

"It suits you," Voldemort says, "but I think I prefer it bushy and unadorned," he runs his fingers along my curls.

It's the first time anyone has ever said that to me. I look back in the mirror and think of my feelings at the wedding: pleased but resigned, secretly wishing I'd looked as pretty as Ginny or Fleur and her cousins. It isn't me. There are more important things. I take off the diadem and pass it back to the Dark Lord. "So, did you try it on when you first found it?" I tease him, imagining the pretty diadem on that bald scalp.

Voldemort gives me a faint half-smile, "I can't remember." His arms wrap around me and this time my stomach tightens in anticipation –

A familiar voice suddenly sounds from thin air: _"Get away from her, you bastard!"_

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: What will happen in the Room of Requirement? Hermione has to confront the consequences of her choices._


	15. An Excellent Garden for Potions

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The fifteenth chapter of the rewrite. I've also done some minor editing of the first few chapters, just so the characterisation, particularly Voldemort's, flows a bit better. Nothing significant, most of it was itty bitty stuff like lengthening contractions and changing a couple of words around. Thank you to a certain Lord or Lady Anonymous for pointing out a fairly significant typo in chapter eleven, which I have since remedied! Voldemort has a Ratatouille moment in this chapter, which just sort of happened. He seems to have been keen on French cooking, lucky for Hermione! Thank you so much to everyone who left a review, you lovely people make me happier than Dobby with a new pair of socks!

**Chapter Fifteen: An Excellent Garden for Potions**

Ron and Harry step out from under the Invisibility Cloak, their wands pointed at Voldemort. There is an enormous crash of cascading furniture and the sound of running feet as Remus Lupin and Alastor Moody - his blue eye swivelling crazily - appear at one end of the narrow pathway through the clutter. I suddenly remember what happened when Harry thought Voldemort had kidnapped Sirius. Harry hadn't been able to listen to reason. We'd all flown to London to rescue Sirius even if it meant facing the darkest of wizards by ourselves. And now Harry and Ron thought Voldemort had kidnapped_ me_. I _should_ have realised this would happen. Oh, what an idiot I've been!

There's the sound of more crashing and Kingsley Shacklebolt appears, along with a breathless Professor McGonagall, at the other end of the path. We're surrounded. Even Voldemort can't possibly fight off this many experienced duellists by himself. "Let her go," Harry demands, his jaw clenched, his green eyes narrowed.

I expect Voldemort to laugh and disapparate with me, but he stands quite still beside me – almost touching. The hood of his cloak has fallen back around his shoulders and his white, inhuman features radiate a careless confidence, his wand held easily at his side. The red, slit-pupilled eyes take in the Order members, an amused, anticipatory gleam in their scarlet depths. The Diadem of Ravenclaw has disappeared into the dark folds of his robes. "If Hermione wishes to leave," he answers Harry coldly, "I shall not stop her."

I don't know what to do, or what to say. Ron's blue eyes are fixed on me and I can see that he's terrified of going toe-to-toe with Lord Voldemort; his willow wand is shaking slightly but he stands there all the same, his chin tilted upward in determination. _Oh, Ron!_

"Anyone can see you've got her under the Imperius Curse!" Harry snaps.

"Have I?" Voldemort answers, his high voice carrying on the air despite his quiet tone.

Silence. Everyone stands, wands out, unmoving. It reminds me of when Hagrid asked who wanted to pet a Hippogriff and everyone stood there behind the fence with pale, nervous faces hoping someone else would go first.

_Hermione…_ Ron mouths soundlessly, slowly extending his left hand for me to take, _Hermione… _I want so much to grab those warm fingers, to be pulled back to my friends and forget everything that has happened between me and Lord Voldemort. But I can't. Because I know that if I take Ron's hand Voldemort will kill him. _I can't_, I mouth back at him, feeling tears begin to swell.

"SHACKLEBOLT-!" Moody suddenly roars, just before Kingsley Shacklebolt, who saved my life on the flight from Privet Drive, lets out a sharp cry, blood seeping through his robes as he crumples sideways beside Professor McGonagall. A strong grip yanks me backwards by the collar and I find myself pressed against a cupboard with Lord Voldemort between me and a volley of curses. I can't see what's happened to Shacklebolt. Ghastly, high-pitched laughter splits the air as the Dark Lord deflects spells with ease, his wand alive with blinding green light. Through the blaze of battle I can see Harry throw a Disarming Jinx that misses the agile Voldemort and hits the pockmarked sculpture right above my head, sending it toppling. I cast a Shield Charm and dive aside as the stone crashes to the floor.

"_Careful of Miss Granger!"_ I can hear Professor McGonagall cry. Voldemort laughs again and pivots gracefully as his whole body seems to slip away, the black robed figure dissolving into nothingness, leaving everyone staring with wide-eyes, trying to anticipate where he could appear next.

Ron takes a step forward but Harry pulls him back, wincing through the pain of his scar. "Nobody… move!" he chokes, stumbling, clutching his forehead.

I feel an unexpected weight in the zipped pocket of my cardigan: the diadem. Then something seizes me, locking me so tightly in its powerful coils that I don't know where I end and it begins: a creature with brilliant eyes that stain my vision scarlet. I open my lips to scream but it isn't my voice that smoothly issues from my throat. _"Now that Miss Granger is quite safe,"_ the chilly voice mocks as I step forward, rolling my wand between my fingers, _"shall we continue?"_

Without waiting for an answer, I find myself leaping fearlessly into the air, spinning like an acrobat and flinging green light at Alaster Moody, who has to dodge sideways behind a broken chair, which shatters like a firework in an explosion of green sparks. My whole body courses with exultant joy. "Don't hit her!" Ron wails again and again, _"don't hit her!" _

"Hermione!" Remus Lupin calls, crouching behind the debris, "You have to throw him out!"

I treat him to a wicked smile and disapparate, reappearing – exhilarated – behind him and Moody, twirling my wand and this time the lurid green curse hits the retired auror square in the face, sending him limply sprawling, his glass eye rolling across the floor like a lost marble; a vicious, triumphant laugh issues from my throat as I grind the heel of my shoe down on the eye with a delightful crunch. Remus Lupin levitates a blistered old cupboard between us, backing away to defend Harry and Ron. _Pathetic._ _"Hermione!"_ Harry calls, "It's us, _your friends!_ Hermione!"

_My friends… _The creature snarls angrily, tightening its hold. _Ron… Harry…! _Through the red haze I can see Professor McGonagall bending over Kingsley as something large and invisible slides past my leg and Moody's body toward Lupin. _Moody_… _no! _I try to wrench my wand free, but it moves gracefully to point at McGonagall. _NO! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET-! _

**L.V.H.G**

We stumble and I dive for Nagini as Hermione thrashes out of my control. I use every last shred of my power to bring down her wand hand diagonally before someone thinks to stun us and – as I unfurl from Hermione like twisting smoke – we spin away to crash into hard earth and sunlight.

Just as I dig into my pocket for the glasses there is a blur of shadow and the sound of heaving breath and something punches me in the face. "You – complete – _monster!"_ Hermione screams shrilly, punctuating every word with a swiping blow, launching herself on top of me as I try to sit up and reason with her, disoriented by the light and my reverberating skull and fumbling for my wand. "How – _dare_ – you – _possess_ – me?-! _How dare you try to make me kill my friends?" _Then she bursts into tears.

I grab her shoulders blindly, forcing her to cease struggling as she bangs her fists uselessly against my chest. "Hermione, stop this. Alastor Moody deserved to die. He threatened my life and so I took his. I did not forget my promise not to harm Potter. Possessing you was the simplest way to protect you. Shhh…_ my darling..._ _shhh_…"

"I don't care! _I don't_–" I hold her close as she weeps into my robes. I can feel the metal of the diadem pressed against me through her cardigan. Are these tears for herself or the dead wizard? Either way, they irritate me: dull, pitiful snivelling for an unworthy cause. Yet – closing my eyes – I allow her to cry, enjoying the feel of her trembling body. Girls were prone to hysteria for silly reasons, were they not? One could not blame Hermione for her gender.

"_Master," _Nagini interrupts, _"my love, there is a muggle coming…"_

_Curse this wretched sunlight!_ I grasp my wand and apparate myself and Hermione from the doubtlessly overgrown garden (although I cannot see it) to inside the derelict darkness of the hovel where my mother once lived. It was the first thing that had come to mind.

My eyes find relief in the filthy darkness, filled with cobwebs, dust and ash. The walls are blackened as though by fire and I can hear mice skittering across the weak floorboards, fleeing our unexpected arrival. I sit up and lift Hermione so she sits properly in my lap, stroking her hair comfortingly. _"I killed Moody,"_ she whimpers, "and I… I was g-going to kill Professor McGonagall… _Professor McGonagall…!"_

Was_ that_ really Minerva McGonagall? Ah yes, _seventy,_ I keep forgetting. "Ssshhh… Hermione… it was I who claimed Moody's life… you know you had no part in it…" Hermione and her morals are seriously beginning to wear on my patience, but I continue to croon sympathetically.

**L.V.H.G**

Through the blur of tears and the darkness the only thing I can see are those large red eyes, shining like a cat's. I feel sick that I didn't throw him out sooner, before anyone died. _It's my fault… it's my fault Alastor Moody's dead. _The creature wrapping his arms around me doesn't even understand why I'm crying. It wasn't just Voldemort in my head… I was in _his_… I felt so powerful, unfettered, and ruthlessly _alive _while fighting and then killing another human being.

Finally, I run out of tears and attempt to pull myself together – despite the hollow of guilt and grief eating up my insides. I wipe my eyes and my nose with a sleeve and reach a hand up and touch the cold, serpentine face. "I'm sorry for hitting you," I tell him, feeling so numb the lie costs me nothing. Voldemort makes a dismissive noise and leans into my touch, the gleaming eyes closing, leaving us in complete blackness. I trace my fingers around the strange, slitted nostrils causing him to sigh in pleasure. But I'm burning them into my brain: _animals have noses like this_. Somewhere along the way, when his face started to become a familiar sight, I forgot that. The eyes flick back open like crimson lamps and I stare at them too, with their vertical pupils – night-hunting eyes with an extra layer of tissue to reflect more light back through the retina. I remember that from a project on tigers I did at primary school. I wondered what it would feel like to be a wild tiger – to stalk through the jungle and know you were the biggest, nastiest thing out there. And now I know.

Perhaps Tom Riddle was human once, but he hasn't been for a long time and I can't afford to forget that. Any time there's a chance to kill he takes it, unthinkingly, unerringly. No matter how affectionate he can be, how intelligent he is, or how well he can cook, he isn't fit to interact with other human beings. He's like a vicious animal that bites everyone except its owner… with – terrifyingly – more power than any other wizard or witch in Britain. But there_ is_ more there: not a conscience, but definitely a heart and a desire to be loved.

I find myself stroking Voldemort's nose like I would Crookshanks', and I've seen him do with Nagini. "_Promise_ me you _won't_ possess me again." _Or I'll kill you myself, I swear, Harry won't get a chance. _It comes out bitter and strict. But that's not how it works. I can't threaten Voldemort; I can't force him into doing what I want. I have to put aside the pain weighing on my soul and be nice to my very own murderous creature, because there's nothing else I can do. Ron's hand reaching out to me floats into my mind and my heart aches.

"You have my word that I shall not possess you unless it is absolutely necessary to our survival," he answers, leaning forward to kiss the edge of my lips and I have to fight the instinct to flinch. "Since you are recovered, let's leave this distasteful hovel."

"Where _are_ we?" I scramble up, brushing myself off. _I'm sorry Alastor Moody, I'm so, so sorry…_

"The home of my mother," the words are emotionless and make it clear he doesn't want to talk about her. I light my wand, illuminating a ruined dump, barely more than a shack, with scorched walls and broken rafters, and weeds growing up through several cracked floorboards – all of it caked in thick, thick dust. Voldemort vanishes the dust and cobwebs, allowing us clean passage to the rickety door. I can't help but notice he still isn't wearing shoes, his large white feet have an almost spectral quality against the dark floor, regularly disappearing beneath the fluttering hem of his robes. He affixes the dark, round lenses to his face and raises his hood as we step outside into a wild garden filled with overgrown herbs, nestled under tall, shady trees. Away from the house, up a steep bank, I can see the sheen of Nagini's scales as she suns herself.

As I bend down to deal with my filthy jeans, I notice something glinting silver amongst the weeds. Wary of touching anything in a place that used to house a Horcrux, I levitate the object into the air where it slowly revolves as if on an invisible string: Ron's Deluminator. Just seeing it makes me choke back another sob. He must have thrown it as Voldemort disapparated. I reach out and grab it; the silver is still warm under my fingers. _Ron…_

Lord Voldemort has walked up the ridge and stands, a stark black figure looking across the valley; out of place in the golden light of the late summer afternoon. I clutch the Deluminator fiercely to my chest for a moment and then stuff it in of my jeans: a secret just for me; like carrying Ron's smile in my pocket. It gives me the courage to walk forward with the reminder of why I'm doing this – _not_ for Voldemort, but for my friends, for everyone else.

I trudge up the hill to join him, breathing in the country air and taking my time, just appreciating the birdsong and the end of summer rustling in the trees. From up here you can see the entirety of Little Hangleton nestled in the middle of the valley and the old manor house on the opposite hill, all bathed in beautiful light. I take the diadem out of my cardigan – it's poked several holes in the light wool – and hand it to Voldemort.

The pale, long-fingered hands wrap around the delicate metal and jewels. "We ought not to just put it in your bag," the chilly voice muses thoughtfully, "It will get bored."

"I'm not wearing it," I say firmly, "besides, how could it be more bored than it was sitting in the Room of Requirement for years?"

Sighing, Voldemort transfigures a fallen branch into a black jewellery case with a green velvet lining and places the Diadem of Ravenclaw carefully inside. After casting several warding spells on the box, he passes it wordlessly back to me to be put in my beaded bag. He takes the glasses off. To my immense satisfaction, a purplish-yellow bruise is spreading between his nostrils. I probably would have broken his nose if he'd had one. "It was about this time of year…" he says, almost to himself, "The air smells the same… it could be… almost yesterday…" His eyes are only open a fraction; as if he didn't have eyes at all but someone had made two neat horizontal incisions, thin lines of blood in the alabaster skin. "I cannot regret it… he deserved it; of everyone I remember, that filthy muggle deserved it the most."

"Maybe that's what you can regret," I say lightly, "that he deserved it?"

Voldemort tilts his head to the side, considering. "There is something to that… although it sounds like a fine way to ruin the ritual."

"Well… I think I saw some Flitterbloom moving in the herb patch. Why don't you cast the wards and Muggle Repelling Charms?"

"Flitterbloom?" Voldemort squints down at me, nonplussed.

"For all the Blood-Replenishing Potion I'm going to have to brew. Fortunately, you seem to have the Ashwinder Eggs covered."

**L.V.H.G**

We end up deciding to stay next to the Gaunt dwelling, pitching the tent in the garden. Hermione busies herself collecting the ingredients for the potion, which I admit we will require if I am to at all attempt the rescue of the ring Horcrux. It would seem simpler to disguise ourselves and acquire some ready-made, but it is not a time-consuming potion to brew and I would rather ingest a potion prepared by Hermione and myself than by anyone else. Besides, I can tell that Hermione's nerves are shot, and brewing a potion is a calming thing – something for her to focus on while she regains her equilibrium. And there is also the added pleasure of watching her bend over in her tight denim trousers as she gathers nettles, Flitterbloom and Goosegrass.

Although I cannot help but think of Hufflepuff's Cup – somewhere out in the world, its safety unknown – I recognise that it will keep until tomorrow. Besides, I have little knowledge of where to look, nor any idea what the object itself looks like, except that it is a cup with the famous badger crest. I can only imagine its appearance. Apparition would seem a dangerous idea, given my sketchy mental picture of the cup and the kind of protections Hermione tells me I placed around the cave: blood wards and Inferi. We might apparate right into some fatal piece of Dark magic.

I let Hermione be until evening. It feels rather odd conjuring Fiendfyre to heat the stove, but it produces the best Ashwinder eggs and I doubt Hermione is going to make herself dinner when she's off in the twilight looking for slugs with Nagini, whose senses I've enlisted to assist her. Every so often there is an exclamation from outside as another slug is located. I use the remainder of our food to set out the ingredients for a ratatouille, transfiguring two heads of neglected lettuce into fresh aubergine and courgettes and venturing out into the garden myself to seek out parsley and the possibility of oregano. Somehow I doubt it was my uncle who kept such an well-stocked garden for potions, although admittedly my only recollection of him is a memory within a memory, just the low ceiling of the hovel and a gruff voice: _You look mighty like that muggle…_

Grinding my teeth, I return with my herbs to prepare the stew. Some would say that it ought to be Hermione cooking our meals but, besides the simple fact that Hermione doesn't appear to know how, preparing our meals is the closest I can come to tasting them. Leaning forward, tasting the air in the manner of a snake, I can smell the parsley, the pepper, the duplicated tomatoes, the onion I have enlarged, and the particularly pungent garlic I have summoned. I can lift the lid of the pot and savour the aroma as the scents blend together, even if I am unable to taste the final result. Often, by the time the food is done, I am no longer hungry, almost as if I really had eaten it.

Hermione bustles in carrying a bucket of slugs and bundles of the necessary plants, with Nagini at her heels. "I only packed the tiniest vial of Dragon's blood," she calls from the lounge, "but it should be enough if we're careful about enlarging it. Your mother really did have an excellent garden for potions – well, I suppose it isn't that surprising since she managed to brew Amortentia…"

I allow the Fiendfyre in the stove to snuff out, carefully shutting the vents so the slowly forming Ashwinders will not be able to escape. I suppose I have a small while before I must freeze their eggs. Then I step back from the stove, douse my emotions with the ice of a calmative spell, and walk into the lounge where Hermione is chopping up plants on the coffee table. "How do _you _know my mother made Amortentia?"

She glances up, brushing hair back from her face. Giving me a studied look, she puts down her knife and gets up off the floor to sit on the couch. "Did the people at the orphanage tell you what she looked like?"

I do not like that she replies to me with a question of her own, but I still give her the answer. "They told me that, like me, she had dark hair and dark eyes. But she had no money and Mrs Cole thought she might have been a gypsy or some such." I can tell by Hermione's expression that what I've just said must be another one of the kind circumnavigations of the truth that the orphanage staff were so good at and I feel sick. I sit down beside Hermione. "She was ugly, wasn't she?" I had always imagined her to look rather Spanish, but fragile, with weak eyes – but beautiful as any child would like to imagine his mother. Hermione nods. An ugly girl living in a hovel who desired the handsome local squire, as many girls had desired me at Hogwarts. With my father's looks, I had narrowly escaped one or two love potions in my time. I had always thought it was her magic that drove him away, like it drove the other children away from me, but it wasn't that at all – not really. She might have been a pureblood witch, but she would have been a ragged, ugly pauper in the eyes of Tom Riddle. He hadn't betrayed her at all – there had been nothing to betray – only me. "Why ever did she stop giving him the potion?" I wonder, truly mystified.

"Maybe she ran out of some of the ingredients?" Hermione suggests, biting her lip. "Or… or… maybe she hoped she wouldn't need it any more…?"

I scowl at the Flitterbloom half diced on the table, no longer sure which of my selfish parents I loathe more, both of them equally repulsive and uncaring of the thing they had brought into the world. "How do _you_ know all this?"

"Professor Dumbledore was searching through your past for clues to your Horcruxes. He managed to collect the memories of several people who knew your mother. Harry told me."

The thought of pretentious, self-satisfied Albus Dumbledore and confident, stupid, _lucky_ Harry Potter – whose own mother's love had saved him and shattered everything but a sliver of my spirit – knowing all of this about my parents deepens my scowl and my wish that I had been the one to kill Dumbledore. Unwilling to let Hermione see how deeply her revelation has cut me, I take her hand, pulling her closer to me, sliding my other hand around the curve of her waist. My beautiful prize from Potter, whose anguish today I enjoyed immensely. _My Hermione… _She smells of Flitterbloom sap, along with the irrepressible strawberry shampoo. Breathing her in, I can forget my parents and take comfort in Lord Voldemort's fortune. "I love you," I whisper in her ear.

Hermione stiffens in my embrace, as though I have said something wrong, "You _can't_," she tells me with a surprised frown, as if I had just told her something ridiculous like I could improve the Blood Replenishing Potion by tipping in the ratatouille.

"Of course I can," It's rather sad that such a nice-looking young woman believes herself to be unlovable. I hold Hermione tightly, squeezing her close. "Has no one told you how pretty this crazy hair of yours is? And that plump-lipped little frown you're giving me?" I smile and lean around to kiss it away, but she is still frowning when my lips leave hers. "You are eminently lovable, Hermione," I reassure her. There is a sudden clamour of tiny angry voices coming from the kitchen and Nagini, peacefully coiled on the rug, raises her head. "…But I am afraid the kitchen may be about to explode."

**L.V.H.G**

I distracted myself all afternoon gathering the ingredients for the Blood-Replenishing Potion but now… now it comes to it I don't know if I can be intimate with Voldemort after being inside his mind, knowing that all of this is just a veneer for what's really underneath. _Love!_ He doesn't know what love is! He'd thought my unthinking comment was about _me_. _Has no one told you how pretty this crazy hair of yours is? _The sad thing is that no one has. Why in almost eighteen years is an _obsessive maniac_ the_ only_ member of the opposite sex to have _ever_ said that to me? Why didn't Ron say it when he had the chance?

I feel small and petty, pitying myself when Kingsley might be dying. Long fingers offer me a bowl of delicious-smelling stew; I settle it in my lap, the sides of the hot bowl blistering my hands. Lord Voldemort sits back down beside me. "Dark magic," he murmurs, smirking, "bringing you dinner and Ashwinder eggs." He stares down at his own bowl, rolling his spoon in the spidery fingers of his left hand, and begins eating in that quick, tidy, disinterested way typical of him; letting his momentum carry him through the ashen taste. He gets through two-thirds of the bowl before setting it aside.

"Do you mean to tell me you used _Fiendfyre_ to heat the stove?"

He nods, the red eyes shining with good-humour, and leans against me clearly enjoying my disbelief. "The Ashwinders like the Cursed Fire best. Although, in this case, their pleasure was somewhat curtailed by the fact that they were trapped in the stove."

"I suppose that makes sense… it requires the most magic of all conjured fires." I feel decidedly outclassed, thinking of the small, bluebell flame jars I used to be so proud of, as Voldemort waves his wand and candles reminiscent of those at Hogwarts appear, except these are taller and made of more elegant black wax, encased in gorgeous, floating prismatic spheres. Under the candlelight, he really does have an attraction all his own, an alien symmetry to his smooth, angular features and the luminous quality of his unnaturally white skin and large scarlet eyes. Not handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but almost beautiful – in his own otherworldly way, marred only by the fading bruise on his flat nose.

As I begin to stand up to take my empty bowl into the kitchen, Voldemort pulls me back by one of the belt loops on my jeans. "Precisely, it logically produces the largest eggs and we have only a limited quantity of Dragon's blood." His mouth touches the side of my neck and I shiver. "We will have to reduce the amount of Goosegrass…" it begins to trail upward, "…otherwise the potion's effects will be reduced."

"Oh… oh… yes, that… that makes sense…" it's hard to think while he nibbles the side of my chin. Voldemort takes the bowl from me and puts it on the coffee table with the Flitterbloom. My stomach itself is wiggling like wild Flitterbloom as he brings my hand to his face and slides his tongue down my wrist. His neck sways like a serpent and his movements are slow and sensual. I thought it would be hard, but it's the easiest thing to sigh into this creature's caresses, not to forget Ron, the Order of the Phoenix and the war, but to put them aside for a small while and let myself feel warm and wanted. I feel like I should be suffering more, that I should be more mindful of why I'm doing this, more disgusted as he presses me into the side of the couch and puts his mouth against mine – both of us tasting of tomato, onion and garlic.

He deftly unzips my cardigan. Just one of those large, pale hands can wrap almost the whole way around my neck as he lifts me to kiss him again. Then Voldemort discards his cloak and unclasps several fastenings, letting me see the snowy skin beneath the line of his jutting collarbone. _"Hermione…"_ he breathes my name like an incantation; in his high, eldritch voice it becomes a magical thing to be whispered to the under the moon, _"Hermione…" _The contrast of his hairless, marmoreal flesh against my pink skin is fascinating as he kisses between my breasts and I can feel an inside ache I've never felt before, a sharp tugging in my navel that takes the breath out of my lungs. It makes me shudder and pull away, not wanting to let Lord Voldemort make me feel all this, scared of how much power he has over my body.

"Hermione," the sibilant, magical tone abruptly vanishes along with the kisses, leaving the eerie chill of deadly seriousness as Voldemort looks up at me. "You do… want this… do you not?" The slit pupils are observing me carefully and there is a slight tremble of insecurity in his cold tone.

"Of course I do!" I assure him quickly, hearing my own voice getting squeaky, "but… um… w-well… I don't – I just…" I fumble desperately for the right thing to say. The Deluminator feels heavy in my pocket. "I'm… I'm _nervous_, that's all."

Voldemort says nothing, his face suddenly mask-like; the livid eyes blank as they stare into mine. From the rug, Nagini gives a loud hiss. The only movements in Voldemort's still face are the rapid dilations and contractions of his tiny nostrils breathing heavily. I sit up too. "Are you all right?" I ask, panicked. "Are you having a seizure?"

He shuts his eyes, his mouth contorted as though in immense pain, and I lean forward to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he flinches away as if scalded by my touch. Then the eyes snap back open, filled with glittering crimson fury, and the candles above us gutter and then go out.

"_Liar."_

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Hermione faces the consequences of lying to Lord Voldemort, who begins to feel some sympathy for Merope Gaunt. _


	16. Definitions of Love

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The sixteenth chapter of the rewrite. Just to explain, since I realise it might not have been as clear as it could be: Voldemort first used Legilimency on Hermione in chapter eight. However, he's not used to using it all the time, since his main block of memories only go up to Myrtle's death and then he gets Horcrux memories, which wouldn't include Legilimency, since I see Horcrux magic as quite different from wizard magic. Since Legilimency is a complex and rare ability, I imagine him teaching himself around seventh year. My Voldemort didn't feel the need to use it again until he absolutely _had_ to know what Hermione was _thinking_, because he didn't want to give away that he could do it. This chapter is a bit of a watershed for both characters and is the most angst-ridden chapter so far, just to warn you. I dedicate it to **Megii of Mysteri OusStranger **because the sixth chapter of her story _Ladies' Man _was so stunningly awesome. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter – such long reviews from so many of you! *kisses* I love you all and thus reward you all with an _extra-fast _update (who knew _that_ could happen, right?)!

**Chapter Sixteen: Definitions of Love**

I can see it shivering in her eyes: Ronald Weasley's hand reaching out to her and the silver gift she tried to hide from me, her worry for her associates, her grief and resolution; the images shift and dance before my eyes – Hermione walking in dappled shade, looking up toward my shadowed figure: _not __for Voldemort, but for my friends, for everyone else... __He desperately needs someone to anchor him and I, naïve idiot, hadn't even __imagined __something like this… I'm the only person he trusts… who can make him __feel__. I have this chance, this scary, __horrifying __chance to stop Tom Riddle without a curse being cast…_ _You were prepared to lay down your life to help Harry Potter defeat the Dark Lord and yet you blanch at a lesser sacrifice?_ It scalds me like Potter's mind. I so desperately wanted for her to be mine; this brave, resourceful, foolish girl who gave me respite from the agony of memory; to place Hermione's warmth between myself and my father, Wormtail, and the rest of my faithless servants who abandoned me to thirteen years of torturous madness. Yet, in the end, she is as faithless as the others, as I should have known she would be… _Hermione, the only thing in this fragmented world that feels as good as murder… _

Ronald Weasley: a weak, _worthless_ boy! I claw through her recollections for evidence as she sits petrified, but he has not touched her; in fact, she has watched him with another girl, betraying her for a nonentity as worthless as he; he has only barely managed to fumble his way haphazardly into Hermione's affections. I have protected her, killed for her, paid her compliments, comforted her and given her Potter's life. _What more is there?-! _What precious quality is it that such fools command that I do not? _You remain… forgive me… woefully ignorant… _

"_Imperio!" _The four syllables fall from my lips almost unconsciously. I reach out and press the fingers of my right hand around her throat whilst she sits there blankly like a little doll. I pull her closer, examining the details that constitute Hermione Granger: the chocolate eyes, the swathe of messy hair, the slight – almost imperceptible – freckles on her round face, her pink lips, stubborn chin, and the small, but lovely breasts beneath her half-unbuttoned cotton blouse. Not so remarkable, really. A collection of blood and bone, overlaid with the thinnest layer of skin – just like any other young woman. Oh, how I wish to make her _suffer_ for this… this common girl who dared deceive Lord Voldemort. _A slow agonising death, dying alone abandoned by the very friends she clings to ardently to_… yes... But… but I also want to hold her in my arms, want her to smile at me, want her to tell me she cares for _me_ and _me_ alone…

"_Come here_…" I order and she spills into my arms, dutifully obeying my wish. It is like holding a dead thing, not a woman. _Why ever did she stop giving him the potion?__ …__Maybe she hoped she wouldn't need it anymore?_ I feel sick and let go of her. _Oh, mother… mother… is this what you felt? _Torturing yourself with a hypnotised simulacrum of love? I want the _real _Hermione, the courageous girl who smiled at me, aided me and defended me, whose lips touched mine on the cliff-top… I lift the spell and turn away from her, cold despair sinking through me like a stone cast into the North Sea.

I am Lord Voldemort, _I am Lord Voldemort_ and I _know_ what love is. Love is the hot knives that lay waste to your insides when you realise yourself unwanted, love is the weakness that tortures you when pretty Amy Benson cries and calls you _a_ _beastly monster_ when you magic the heads off the mice that had her squealing up on a chair, love is the pain when beautiful Walburga Black spits in your face and calls you a _filthy mudblood _when you try to introduce yourself after being sorted into Slytherin_, _love is the ache when you know that no one is going to help you, or protect you, or make you feel special. Love is death and despair. Love is the cage of _weakness_ before you set aside hope and fly. _Oh, Hermione! I think you would scream like Amy did in that dark cave, I think you would tremble and rave like Walburga – half mad already by the time she left school thanks to the subtle, terrible blood rituals I etched under her bed–! _I clench my jaw in wounded fury as everything slips into blackness…

… _The rocks were warm, though of course it was dangerous to be out of the leaf-litter – I was small and although I knew I would survive seizure aloft by a vicious beak and talons, the experience of possessing a body being torn to shreds was not a pleasant one. But the rocks at the edge of the river were worth the risk: smooth and unshaded by the dense canopy of the forest. Besides, only a starving creature would feast on me; they could sense that something strange lurked behind my brown-black scales – though it was warm-egg-low-river-young-frog time, I was a female without eggs – my hole just above the water was my own. This suited my perfectly well, as the vicious, hormonal hysteria involved in guarding a hole full of eggs was not something I particularly wanted to experience again._

_The warm rocks sang with the vibrations of a large, awkward creature. I remained still, my cloaca automatically releasing a smell that would ward off a mammalian predator. Hopefully, the animal would pass by and leave me be. I tasted its scent: polish-magic-sweat-dirt-blood-perfume… Smells I remembered from… from before… wand… only need… wand… wand…!_

_Something hard and wide came down on me from above and I writhed in agony, desperately trying to bite, to wriggle, to escape the crushing weight. "Oh Merlin!" the terrible thing-from-before exclaims, and the weight lifts leaving me broken and spitting, "Poor thing…!" Poor thing! Didn't it know what I was?-! I was… I was… I am… the most powerful… "Let's take a look at you…"_

_It was beautiful and warm; the spell shone through my scales like the hottest of days – and through the haze as the pain cleared I knew that I was this creature – or a creature like this, this, this large-wand-wand-wand predator. Yes! And once I had a wide territory and killed many wand-creatures… I slithered up the arm of the clumsy beast and let his fingers stroke my scales while I closed in on his mind like my jaws on a fish: voices, books, magic, faces – how had I forgotten faces? – cooked food, fingers over polished wood – oh! How eagerly I devoured his every thought as my own memories blossomed as I sank deeper into this warm-blooded animal through his pale eyes. And right inside his deepest fears, there coiled the words which set my mind to racing, the secret words he feared to speak and I had been trying to remember for so long: Lord Voldemort. _I am Lord Voldemort, I am Lord Voldemort_… I repeated the words – the English words – over and over as I gorged myself on my magnificent reflection in Quirinus Quirrel's mind. I released the snake that had preserved me, so ecstatic I was almost unaware of the unnatural process of shedding the comfortable enclosure of flesh – how small and insignificant the brown snake appeared from without – and emerged, shapeless and invisible, my mind sharpened by his thoughts as I curled greedily around the foolish man's mind – a teacher at Dumbledore's school! – who had stumbled upon me so fortuitously; this clever young wizard who would soon become my servant, my tool to regain what I had lost… to regain myself and rip into those who thought me vanquished like scrawny chicks in an undefended nest… oh yes… I will enjoy the sharp taste of their desperate fear on my tongue before swallowing them whole… _

**L.V.H.G**

As soon as Voldemort slumps forward on the couch and I realise what must have happened, I stumble away, reeling from the Imperius Curse – almost knocking over the coffee table – and cast the Full Body-Bind Curse on him. His arms and legs snap together as he lays face-down on the cushions. I try to catch my breath and my wand-hand is shaking. _What should I do? If he's remembered how to perform Legilimency…_

I jump as something hisses behind me and Nagini uncoils to slither over to the couch, draping herself protectively over Voldemort's unconscious form, her yellow eyes regarding me unblinkingly. "I'm not going to hurt him!" I tell her, "It was self-defence!" Oh Merlin, now_ I'm_ talking to snakes… _What did he see in my mind?_ I hadn't been lying when I told him I was nervous… I was scared – scared of him and scared of myself.

Somehow he manages to be terrifying even bound and face-planted on the couch. I remember his warning this morning: _You will not keep anything from Lord Voldemort. You will not conceal what you know about my Horcruxes or anything else. __Do you understand__, Hermione? _I have no idea what will happen when he wakes up _– is he going to torture me? Should I run?_

That thought sends a flood of anger through me and I realise I need to stop worrying about what he thinks and sort this out logically. Tom Riddle is _mentally ill_ – I can't expect him to be rational and I can't keep trying to anticipate what someone so unstable will do. Anyone with a_ shred _of empathy would understand why I hesitated. Today, because of him, I murdered a friend and almost murdered another. What was he_ expecting_? _I haven't done anything wrong! _I think fiercely, _I've kept my promise to help him; I cared for the Horcrux child and talked Voldemort through regaining that part of his soul. I've been preparing Blood-Replenishing Potion for him when all I felt like doing was curling up and crying. _

Walking forward with new confidence, I take some Calming Draught out of my bag and approach Nagini respectfully. "I'm just going to turn him over so he can see," I tell her, wary of the giant viper. I point my wand at Voldemort's frozen form and slowly turn him over, giving Nagini time to adjust her coils comfortably on top of him. For the first time, I'm hoping he's revisiting something really traumatic, half out of spite and half because it means he'll be more vulnerable and less likely to immediately start torturing me. If only he couldn't do wandless magic! I grip my vine wood wand tightly and hope my defensive curse will be enough to hold him.

I perch on the edge of the couch and wait for the red eyes to open. _I can do this… I can do this…_

**L.V.H.G**

…I can't move my limbs; it's as if my whole body has been frozen in ice. I open my eyes to assess my surroundings, but my neck will not stir, limiting my vision to the dull ceiling of the tent. Nagini is draped over my torso, apparently asleep. The rim of a bottle is put to my lips and, though I attempt to pull away, my throat muscles automatically swallow the sticky blue liquid that trickles in. My panic dies down under forced languor as more and more enters my system until the hand above me has fully emptied three bottles. It is becoming difficult for my eyes to focus.

"Right," says a voice from above me as I can feel hair brush across my forehead and Hermione's face comes into view. A soft hand touches the side of my face. "I'm sorry about this, but I need you to listen. After I've finished speaking, I'm going to take of the Body-Bind Curse and give you back your wand. But first you're going to listen to what I've got to say." _How dare she! _I try to glare at her, but I have to struggle to keep my eyes from closing.

"F-first of all, I want you to know that I understand that you have an Antisocial Personality Disorder and it's hard for you to grasp things that most people feel. So I'm going to try and explain. Now, try to remember what you felt when you realised you were almost responsible for my death. Well, imagine what it would be like to feel that strongly for everyone." _What nonsense is this? _"I know it's hard, but just_ try_. Imagine feeling that much grief when you saw anyone die whose death you could have prevented. That's what normal people feel... what_ I_ feel." I stare up at her solemn face blankly, unsure of the point of her speech. Her voice sounds tired. "I've kept all my promises to you; I've helped you as much as I can. B-but you need to see how hard it is for me. I wasn't lying to you, but until a couple of weeks ago you were my enemy. You just attacked people I love. You say you love me. I-if you do… if you _do_ love me, then you'll accept that I'm not your possession and that I care about other people. Your mother tried to force someone to love her and you know how that turned out. Loving someone is… is… it's like… like the Unforgivable Curses. It's not worth anything at all if you don't mean it – _really_ mean it. Professor Dumbledore said you were incapable of love and could never understand it. Please prove him wrong. Please just… _try_ to understand." I blink blearily up at her, trying to puzzle out her meaning. It seems to be that she feels I should have made greater allowance for her irritating compassion and her grief over Auror Moody? That I should be _grateful _that she offers herself to me with all the enthusiasm of the proverbial maiden giving herself to a dragon for the sake of some pathetic village? That I have not sufficiently demonstrated my affection for her? That I should accept that I have some kind of mental disorder? _That's what normal people feel_… _You know Tom's not like the other children. Sometimes I think we should have him, well… examined… _"I'm going to take the curse off you now. _Finite Incantatem!_"

My muscles abruptly melt into the cushions, the fog of artificial lethargy making it as difficult to move as it is to think, especially with the sleeping Nagini's weight trapping me beneath her. I blink and struggle to work my vocal chords, part of me still far away, a Dice Snake lazing on warm rocks, such warm rocks… a simpler creature unperturbed by love and its variegated meanings. _I am Lord Voldemort… _smooth wood is pressed into my left hand. "There's your wand," Hermione says nervously. _My wand… years spent yearning for my wand… my precious yew wand…_

"_Wand…" _I sigh dreamily in Parseltongue. _"Lord Voldemort needs only his wand…" _It feels so nice under my fingers, how I missed having fingers…

"Um… are you…?"

"_I am… Lord Voldemort… and… they will… you will… like a nest of… of…"_

"Erm..." something waves in front of my eyes, a hand moving up and down. How odd. "Um… Vold–your Lordship? I think I accidentally gave you an overdose. Can you… can you hear me?"

"_Lord Voldemort hears all…" _

"If… if you could speak English…?"

**L.V.H.G**

I drift awake on the currents of strange dreams: of losing myself in an endless forest and of lying on warm rocks, or perhaps cushions... and Hermione's voice far above as from a blue Albanian sky... love and vengeance and so many things all mixed up together as if my mind were being stirred clockwise and then counter-clockwise like a potion. _"Did you sleep well, my lord, my beloved?"_ Nagini asks, flicking her tongue affectionately across my face. I can hear bubbling and there is a strong, unmistakable smell of Dragon's blood in the air.

_"I am not entirely sure, Nagini - how long did I sleep for?"_

_"Some time, my lord. The moon must be high by now. The human female came and fed you things while you were entranced. She smelt of fear."_

I frown, _"Entranced?"_

_"It was the cold visions, although I did not bite you - do not worry. I guarded you from predators while your mind swam far." _She seems to find this a sufficient explanation and closes her eyes, resting her large, diamond-shaped head on my chest.

I lift my unhelpful snake aside and sit up, feeling slightly dizzy as I do so. "Hermione...?" I call, looking around uncertainly.

"Y-you're awake!" Hermione walks out of the kitchen, her hair tied in a messy plait and her sleeves rolled up to the elbow. "I gave you fluids to dilute the dosage but nothing seemed to be working, so I hoped you'd just sleep it off..." She bites her lip nervously and I can see that she is worried about far more than the state of my health. _What happened? _Hermione gives a false smile, "I managed to finish brewing the Blood-Replenishing Potion while you slept. I've just taken it off the boil to cool."

"What happened to me?"

She sits down in an armchair and stares at the rug, not meeting my eyes. "You... you saw something in my mind and you... reacted badly and had a seizure. You were so furious I gave you three bottles of Calming Draught... I just wanted you to calm down enough to listen to my explanation! But I... I accidentally gave you an overdose - I_ really_ didn't mean to! And... well... you've been pretty much out of it for the last couple of hours..." Hermione's features are utterly defeated and she still won't look at me, her body hunched over as if to become as small as possible.

Standing up, I walk over to crouch in front of the armchair and lift her chin with my fingers. "Look at me," I ask her quietly as I tilt her chin upward to see her skittish brown eyes. "What was it that made me so furious?"

Hermione meets my gaze with surprising strength, though her lovely eyes are oddly sad. "I don't have the energy to go through this all again. Since you seem to have remembered how to perform Legilimency, why don't you just watch it for yourself?" There is a callous uncaring to her tone and I can tell she expects the worst of me and is resigning herself to her fate. I nod and grasp her trembling chin again, staring past her warm irises and into her mind.

...I can scent her fear and see my own serpentine face tight with fury, feel her churning emotions rush against and around me like fierce waves as she launches into her ardent speech, leaving me feeling not angry but hollow. As with Quirrel's mind, her memories trip mine like dominoes. I step back from her, aching with bitterness. "Hermione, it was neither your principles, nor you commitment to your associates that provoked my fury. Have I not attempted to understand and allow for both? I called you_ a liar_ because you accepted my attentions under false pretences. You seem to be under the impression you are about to be sacrificed for the good of wizardkind. I will not attempt to discuss the definitions of love with you - since you make it quite clear you believe such things to be beyond my understanding - but I would suggest to you that _lying back and thinking of England_ is not one of them." The anger comes, seething viciously against my self-control, wanting to _hurt_, wanting to _break_. "I am not eager for empty gestures, nor do I wish to embarrass myself by expressing sentiments you do not share. I am going for a walk now because, I admit, I am sorely tempted to make prolonged use of the Cruciatus Curse on the pretty figure of yours. And _yes_, you are quite correct in that comparison, Hermione. _You have to mean it._"

I turn and step out into the night without a backward glance. I walk up the overgrown path, letting my feet carry me through the darkness, uncaring as to my destination. The things I desire to do to Hermione are lurid and terrible and they burn into my imagination, making me gasp and tremble. _End it, _part of me hisses viciously, _go back and put an end to this madness._ A sharp pain against my chest makes me hiss. The locket around my neck is white hot – searing into my skin. I clench my teeth and let it burn. There is something savagely reassuring about physical pain.

The gnarled trees shading the path are familiar and I realise that I am walking up the same lane I have walked twice before. It almost seems as though I am forever stalking up this lonely road toward the old manor house and my father's death. The moon is hidden behind clouds and the stars are distant. I had asked why my mother could not keep my father under the influence of Amortentia and now I knew why. Because false affections are worthless – this fact had eaten my mother alive, stolen her magic, and left me abandoned at my entrance into this world. _Perhaps Merope Gaunt too had wandered this road, feeling this same awful ache…? _The thought mortifies me. The vow does not matter_, how dare Hermione torture me like this!-? _I will kill her… I _have_ to kill her…

_And then she will be dead… _But there is no victory in the thought, merely defeat that the only thing salvageable from this pain is the vengeful satisfaction of ending it without the hope of ever feeling anything else. My gaze lifts to the house on the hill and I recognise that it was the same emotion coursing through me the first time I walked this path.

A soft voice whispers within me: _are you no better than your mother that you would accept defeat so easily? _I stop, standing in the middle of the dark, Hawthorne-lined lane, the same place to which I apparated with Hermione what feels like years ago. _Has not Lord Voldemort always been able to charm those he needed? Why should possessing Hermione Granger be any different? _I had seen myself in her thoughts: _no matter how affectionate he can be, how intelligent he is, or how well he can cook, he isn't fit to interact with other human beings… _and I had seen the all-powerful, terror-clad shadow that haunted Quirrel's weak mind. But neither of them knew Tom Riddle; that shy but admirable orphan who had so successfully fooled so many, who could be so charming. I _will not_ accept defeat like my mother – I will _make_ Hermione Granger feel more for me than she has ever felt for anything and then, if I so chose, _I will tear her apart._ I will see her betray her principles and friends; I will take everything from her and leave her with no one but me!

The shuttered, crumbling manor house looms atop the hill as I turn to give it one last look. _Was it defeat that day too, disguised as vengeance?_ I remember the strength I drew from the stupid muggle's fury. How easy it had been to kill them all – how perfect, how final. Yet it did not quell my anger. It felt like the same kind of acceptance – the same dark, brutal satisfaction of ending all hope. His outraged face… so similar to mine… _could I have succeeded where my mother had failed? Would they have… could I ever have…?_

Something sticky trickles down my face and my pale fingers come away dark and warm with blood. My pulse pounds in my ears and I scream as the creature hooks its talons into my chest and peels my skin away from the inside, dragging me viciously toward that bright unspeakable point I have been trying so desperately to forget. I cannot breathe as the pain smashes through my lungs as I scream and scream… stumbling and then collapsing. _What… what was the ritual…? _I can't… I can't think… "_The ring," _a cold voice calls distantly through the torture, _"you must regret its separation… quickly!" _But I am in too much pain, in too many pieces as the torturous claws of the desperate red-eyed child hack into my heart… struggling against the searing pain of beyond… and, in my last gasping shred of sanity before everything shatters, I understand what this division… this broken-souled agony really is… and I wish… _I wish…!_

**L.V.H.G**

I sit in shocked silence in Voldemort's wake. I'm furious with him for putting me under the Imperius Curse, but I can't escape the horrifying conclusion that he's right. I _have_ lied just as much as he has. My motives were better, but that doesn't make it right. If I'd been honest, if I hadn't seen myself as a victim, none of this would have happened! If I'd thrown out Voldemort before Moody died, if I'd been honest with Voldemort and honest with myself… if I'd been braver… if I'd stood up to him earlier…

The tears come again and I wipe them roughly away with my palms. _I'm not going to cry again… I refuse to cry again! _I fish the Deluminator out of my pocket and hurl it across the room, angry at Ron, angry at Voldemort, angry at myself. The large snake on the couch twitches its head and flicks out its tongue, staring at me with her golden eyes. Then Nagini slides her massive dark green length off the old couch, making the springs creak, and slithers across the rug toward the door of the tent. Then she looks at me; the same slit-pupilled gaze as her master. "What?" I ask her, wiping my nose.

The snake raises its head and turns to the door, then back at me again. "You want me to go after him?"

Nagini continues to stare impassively at me.

"Look, he's a grown wizard. He can bloody well take care of himself–!"

Far off, I can hear the sound of somebody screaming; long, torturous notes of agony. _Oh Merlin, he must be torturing a muggle! _I grab my wand and run out into the darkness, almost tripping over Nagini in the doorway. It's very dark and I stumble on the narrow path before lighting my wand. Just as I make it through the trees, up the steep bank, and into the lane, the awful screaming stops. I can't see anything on the road, no people, no cars and no streetlights. I've got no idea which way to go. "Is… is anyone there?-!" I call out into the night.

No one answers. All I can hear is the rustling of the trees. _Which way would Voldemort have gone? _The lane disappears up the hill to the right. To the left it slopes down toward Little Hangleton and the other side of the valley. My sneakers beat on the rough road as I race down the hill. Off ahead, I can vaguely make out a black shape lying in the middle of the lane, much bigger than a dead cat or dog. _Oh no, he killed someone… he killed someone… _In the blue light of my wand, I can see blood shining on the ground.

I grab wet material and turn over the body. It's not a muggle at all, but _Voldemort_ – his white skin almost unrecognisable stained with so much blood. Putting a hand to the side of his neck, I feel frantically for a pulse. His skin is cold and unmoving. _He can't be dead… he just can't be…! Come on, wake up… wake up…! _

"_Hermione…" _it's very faint, hardly even a whisper of a sigh from those thin lips. His eyes are closed.

"Yes! It's me, I'm here… _I'm here_…"

"_Herm… io… ne…"_

**L.V.H.G**

Things… overlap. Memories of writing and being written in, memories of being worn on a warm finger and run through with steel; of the decrepit Morfin Gaunt and the snake nailed to his door, of being torn away into metal and stone; the white place – oh… the horrible white agony of helplessness… but older things too, far older than Tom Riddle or Lord Voldemort – echoes of people I have never known; a peasant woman, a man with sad dark eyes, of being turned over in innumerable hands - of calling forth things from beyond the shivering white torture – beautiful careless things that step back and forth so easily where I cannot… they whisper around me like mice in the skirting, unable to be fully grasped but there all the same…

"Oh, thank goodness you're all right!" A feminine voice sounds, drawing me out of the strangely echoing recollections. "I was so _worried!"_

I reach toward the voice – a girl's voice. And through the sickly, metallic stench of blood are the comforting scents of this familiar voice: strawberries, cinnamon, Flitterbloom, and peppermint. _Hermione Granger. My Hermione… _The name opens up beneath me and I fall through those memories too. Her skin is comforting and smooth like magic and sun-warmed rocks. She sits on the edge of the bed as I rest my head against her shoulder. "Forgive me…" I murmur insincerely while enjoying her closeness, her wonderfully tactile reality. "My love, _my darling_, forgive me… I _will _try… I _promise_ I will try…"

And she tightens our embrace. "If… if you forgive _me_ too… but – look, what happened to you on the road? Have you remembered more? I mean what–?"

"It was _you_…" I whisper softly, revelling in the irony of what I'm about to say, "Your words about how… how others feel…" I feel a little frisson of pleasure as her chest swells with a sudden intake of breath. "They_ touched_ me. I thought of my father and… and…" I manufacture a delicate hitch in breath as I trail off, gazing up into her wide eyes. "But I thought I was going to die, I couldn't complete the ritual…" Well, that part was certainly true. "How did you find me?"

"Well… um… I heard screaming – I thought you were torturing a muggle, actually…" Ah, that pretty flush! "I… look… I know I haven't been honest with you. But I _do_ care about you. When I saw you passed out on the road and covered in blood… I… I thought the worst. And if I hadn't just made the batch of Blood-Replenishing Potion, you would have… y-you know…"

"Do not fear, Hermione," I dreamily advise, "if this body had been killed, I know you would have brought me back." Because I would have possessed you and made you perform the Dark rites necessary to acquire a temporary form… and then I would have forced you to take… yes, perhaps Ronald Weasley's blood for the resurrection ritual. But I would not have made you part with any of your lovely flesh, however… no… I enjoy it too much. I smile and close my eyes, allowing myself to play the invalid, enjoying the fluttering, nervous thoughts that play across her mind.

**L.V.H.G**

_I'm standing in a dimly-lit and dusty shop, filled with strange Dark artefacts and paraphernalia. Evil-looking masks sneer down from the walls and frightening spiked instruments dangle from the ceiling. An assortment of what look suspiciously like human bones are lain on an old velvet mat on the counter and behind glass I can see the necklace of silver and opals that almost killed Katie Bell. "I'm not sure if that was pathetic stupidity," sneers a high, icy voice from behind me, "or a rather clever gamble."_

_I spin round and he's standing right beside me, far closer than I'd like. A cruelly amused smile decorates his angular, melted-wax face; his sickly red eyes glinting in the gloom. "I don't know what you're talking about," I snap back angrily and take a step back, worried at how he's still able to access my mind._

"_Ah, stupidity then. For a moment there I actually thought I might have underestimated you." He laughs: a cold, nasty sound with little humour in it. "No wonder you left me to… mmm… pick up the pieces."_

"_So you were the one who helped him through the ritual?" _

_A shadow crosses his face and his mouth contorts into an ugly, thin-lipped grimace. "Yes," he says curtly, reaching across to straighten several of the small human bones, and in the hazy light of the green glass lamp on the counter I can see several flecks of grey in his immaculately-groomed black hair. "Since we are working so... closely... I thought you might be interested to know that Hufflepuff's Cup resided last in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts."_

"_Oh…" I take in the implications of that information. "You said you had a theory on what caused–?"_

_The bloodshot eyes glitter, "Patience, Hermione Granger, the answer will come soon enough, especially since you are having such… success being _nice_ to the Dark Lord." He laughs again, a high, unhinged sweep of glacial mirth that flings me up and away, the grimy shop dissolving into darkness..._

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Will Voldemort and Hermione be able to get their hands on the cup? And how will Hermione cope with Voldemort's new tactics? _


	17. The Forest of Dean

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The seventeenth chapter of the rewrite - or, _How to Write Fluff without Actually Writing Fluff_. It's important to note that events from _Deathly Hallows_ are happening differently, or in a different order because of Voldemort and Hermione. Familiar events will occur, but not necessarily at the same time or for the same reasons. Eventually, you'll find out what Harry and Ron have been up to. I meant to get to the cup this chapter, but it got to almost ten thousand words and I hadn't even gotten close, so the cup must wait until next time. I've always been interested in the fact that the Death Eaters assemble in a circle when summoned and what the deal was with the Knights of Walpurgis, along with what it means to be a "Dark Lord". So here's my attempt to think up some answers. This chapter also contains a homage to the first Hermione/Voldemort fanfiction I ever read. I can't remember the name of it, or the author, but it was a marriage law story where Hermione had a choice between Draco, Severus and Voldemort and chose Voldemort in an effort to stop the war. It was fairly silly and fluffy, but I always loved this one amazing scene it had which has stuck with me for years. Alas, I can't find the story any more. If anyone knows if it still exists, please let me know. Also, warning, this chapter is possibly the creepiest so far. I'm a bit insecure about the characterisation, but I can't edit it any more times - so here is the fourth version of this crazy chapter. Snaky love to all my reviewers, you wonderful creatures! :)

**Chapter Seventeen: The Forest of Dean**

"…_Are you sure about this?" Abraxas Malfoy tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his robes and exhaled a long stream of breath into the cool spring air as he gazed up over the ancient haw trees at the faint sliver of the moon – in its last phase and almost gone. "You could… you could die, you know…"_

_I glanced at my fair-haired servant, irritated by his apprehension. "Do you imagine I shall fail tonight, Abraxas? Have you so little faith in your lord elect?" It was sometimes necessary to remind him that I was no longer the companion of his school days, but his liege. Still, he made the transition more ably than many when I appeared on his doorstep to accept the fealty he promised me long ago. Abraxas had always taken a more traditional view of our cause and Dark magic in general, due to his descent from Lady Morgana. The reforms of 1717 weighed heavily on his Malfoy sensibilities and he followed me not out of personal ambition, but for a return to the old ways before the Wizengamot dared dictate the use of magic to wizards more powerful than themselves. A return to a purer world in every sense. I touched my fingers to the locket around my neck. One of the emeralds of the 'S' had come loose during my time in Syria and I still rubbed it habitually, despite having stuck the jewel fast long ago. After tonight, I would be Lord Voldemort in truth; no longer a travelling scholar with a secret name and dreams of dominion, but a Dark Lord – the first in the British Isles since the Dark Ages._

"_Of course not," Malfoy answered me smoothly. "You know my worry stems from loyalty, not ill faith. I can think of no wizard more fitted to claim the oaken lordship. You will certainly show our continental friends that Brocken is hardly the only place where one may form Walburga's Circle."_

_I smiled slightly at his Anglicising. The Dark sorcerers of Europe, as I had discovered on my travels, considered British wizards far too complacent to ever achieve greatness in the Dark Arts and looked down on us for accepting the rule of our notoriously muggle-loving Ministry. Abraxas, who often visited his cousins in Le Havre, felt their opinions rather keenly. The memory of Lord Grindelwald was still fresh and many conspired to free him from Nurmengard. Those loyal to Grindelwald resented Britain for spawning the wizard who defeated him and those who had opposed the Dark Lord were of the opinion that Albus Dumbledore delayed and delayed and then waltzed in near the end of the war – with his Ministry's approval only after the fact – and stole all the credit. No, Britain would find no allies against me. I can hear them now: _But you took care of Grindelwald, did you not, Dumbledore? Surely this young upstart should present no problem…?_ They would smile and flatter, but they would not help. _

_And I would not fight like the noble Grindelwald and his vast armies of warlocks, wasteful pitched battles out in the open. No, I would conduct my forces like a Slytherin and let secrecy and terror accomplish what even a thousand warlocks could not. I would not grant Dumbledore an army to unite against, but shadows – merciless shades which would strike in the night and then seemingly vanish away, who might be any daylight witch or wizard. I remember Professor Slughorn putting his plump hand on my shoulder when I asked him about Grindelwald: _Oh, not to worry, m' boy! Such a thing could never happen here…

_I gazed up the hill to where the bale fires were being lit in preparation for the ceremony, shivering brightly in the darkness. The majority of those gathering on the hillside expected me to fail, but that was the point of Walpurgis – you were not supposed to survive the ritual. I rolled my beloved yew wand in the fingers of my left hand. It would not fail me._

"_They are ready for you, my Lord." It was Mulciber, his dark, thickset features out of keeping with his fine robes. He bowed low and Malfoy immediately followed suit. I could not help but thrill to hear him address me as such, even though the title was merely ceremonial as yet. Traditionally, he was meant to mock my ambition, but Mulciber had neither the wit nor the courage to do so. I think he's believed me invincible since I delivered him from the tender mercies of Ignatius and Muriel Prewett in third year._

_We walked up toward the bonfires and the masked company who awaited us, their false faces leering in the firelight. I did not recognise the peevish voice of the tall, black-robed wizard who stepped forward. "Who are you, lord who summons the Knights of Walpurgis?" Ah. I could place him now: old Arcturus Black._

"_I am Lord Voldemort," I smiled at the assembled multitude; a smile I knew to be unnerving on my much-changed face, "of the House of Gaunt and Heir to Salazar Slytherin. I lay claim to the Oaken Sceptre and demand the trial of the Circle." I could scent their anticipation. They wanted very badly to kill me, these fine, pure-blooded wizards and witches. Through the masks, their dark, glassy eyes gleamed with eagerness at the death of the strange and presumptuous upstart who dared challenge them for the throne of Morgana. Left vacant and unclaimed for so many centuries, erased in law by the_ _Wizards' Council in the fourteenth century, the title of ancient suzerain still provoked awe and would endow me with the authority to command all those in Britain who held to the old ways. _

"_We bow before you, Lord Elect, and bid you step inside the Circle." The Black paterfamilias intoned smugly, as he gave a fairly minimal bow and stepped back into the assembly. How they radiated arrogance, these proud men and women! I walked forward, my feet naked against the cold, dew-clad grass, wearing nothing but my light robes and Slytherin's locket. And they formed up around me, seventeen silver-masked representatives of the ancient wizarding families of Britain. But their masks did not hide their minds, laid open as I gazed about the circle, the fires dancing around us making the silver faces glitter. I had known them from school for the most part. But they did not remember Tom Riddle with his pleasant tenor so altered and all his beauty gone. Only my closest companions, who waited beyond the fire, knew of my past and I had ensured that none of them would ever speak of Tom Marvolo Riddle. _

_An unknown sorcerer, I frightened those who stood round me with my oddly waxen features, bone-pale skin and bloody eyes. Fear was good, fear would make them hesitate. The circle of fire closed around us, separating the sacred ritual from the rest of those gathered._

_It was Lysandra Rookwood who cast the first flash of green, easily dodged. I spun myself into the air as it clotted with their curse-light, height giving me the advantage of visibility. My body blurred with apparition and I threw Fiendfyre like a wingless dragon, roaring it around me in a tight second circle of flames, in the manner of a fast-coiling Basilisk after its own tail. Beyond it there were yells of pain and rage, but my shield of Cursed Fire held, spitting with blazing serpents. There was a frenzied cry from the smoky darkness beyond and a net of bladed iron erupted through the Fiendfyre, impaling my back and sending me falling to the earth with a bloodied scream, almost consumed by my own fire before it winked out of existence. Gasping in rage, I attempted to disapparate back into the air, but someone had cast an Anti-Apparition Jinx. A barrage of fatal curses shot toward me, which would probably have been the end of Lord Voldemort, had I not already shed a great part of my mortality._

_Before any of them struck, I allowed myself to melt through the gaps in the iron and into the ring of fire which surrounded us, my form slipping away into dust. "…Is he dead?" someone asked as I whispered around them as they stood, gazing down at the empty iron netting._

_The intention here was not their deaths – I could easily kill them – but their submission. Any of the seventeen who died counted as a servant wasted. For, ultimately, what I gained here was not some obscure crown but proof that I could defeat a circle of Dark wizards and witches in combat. The authority to stand as the locus of a ritual ring of powerful, ambitious servants who knew, without any possible doubt, that Lord Voldemort _could _kill every single one of them, even if they all came against me at once. That was the trial of Walpurgis: _magie ist macht_. That was what it meant to be called a Dark Lord._

_I spun myself back together, a subtle cloud over the flames, drifting above the circle; invisible against the inky sky. It was impossible to fire off curses without being discovered, but ah… I waved my wand and creatures began to step from the bale fire – tall and thin, terrifying fire spirits dancing over the grass, grasping for the sorcerers within. There were cries of "Aguamenti!" and "Finite Incantatem!" but more heliopaths emerged and the night air became thick with smoke, which I transfigured into something devious and obscuring – half illusion, half reality – whilst the fire spirits hissed and whirled through the mist, vicious torches seeking flesh. Nor could _Hominem Revelio_ reveal me any longer for – thanks to Egyptian Ophiomency and Horcrux magic – I had become far more than a man. And I came amongst them too, flitting from mind to mind, causing them to collapse under their allies' wands; their companions too busy fending off fire and phantasm to know what was happening. When all but five were on the ground, I allowed them the privilege of duelling me once more. It has long ceased to amaze me how easily most wizards and witches are defeated. Cygnus Black was the last, holding me off for several minutes with admirable bravery. I later discovered that it was he who remembered that the Cursed Fire cannot destroy pure iron; a man who would bear watching._

_The bale fires vanished abruptly as I ended my spells, leaving only stilled darkness. I floated gracefully to the ground as those assembled looked on horror at their champions strewn about me on the grass. This was not the outcome they had envisaged. My corpse was meant to be engraved with runes, wreathed and thrown into the fire as had the corpses of so many gone before me on the altar of ambition. Yet here I stood, waiting to claim my destined prize, and their turn to suffer. There was a rush of whispered amazement. Old Arcturus Black said nothing, staring at his now unmasked nephew lying dazed on the ground, expensive robes ripped and charred. I smiled coldly, triumphantly wondering what excuses they might fearfully offer to break the covenant of the ritual – their fealty to me, their liege by the ancient rite. Had my demonstration had not been enough? My left hand twitched in anticipation of providing further evidence of my… aptitude for such a role. _

"_The Dark Lord Voldemort!" the ever politic Abraxas Malfoy cried, stepping forward into the circle, stooping elegantly to kiss the hem of my robes. "Let me be the first to offer my congratulations, my Lord…" he whispered before stepping back. Mulciber, Nott, Dolohov and Rosier quickly followed suit, falling to their knees to pay homage to the Dark Lord of Albion. And then the rest came, bowing and scraping, murmuring "My Lord… Master… Master… My Lord…" whilst I exalted, watching the pure-blooded princelings crawling before me. For all their injured pride, they were strangely, almost disturbingly, greedy to touch me and there was idolatry in the way so many of them reached out for me, their hands pawing at my robes and I found I had to fight the impulse to draw back. Of course, I had not been raised by wizards and often their ancient traditions were mere paper to me – I took what I could use. Conceiving of the title only in its practical application, I had underestimated their near-religious fever at being presented with a Dark Lord of old; I suppose I even looked the part of a mysterious creature of legend._

_I have been admired much over the course of my life, but never worshipped, truly worshipped. I was deeply shocked by it, yet it provoked the same warm, wonderful rightness that came with ending life. This sublime happiness I first glimpsed, as through a keyhole, in meting out delightfully cruel punishments toward those who crossed me as a child, which reached full exquisite expression within me when I first looked upon Slytherin's Basilisk and learned to smell fear as she could, and opened to door to true pleasure; to gain mastery over every kind of magic and hunt and kill my enemies as I had longed to do but had never dared. I embraced my power, my destiny, and my natural superiority over those who were weaker than I. Now, Lord Voldemort's acclamation filled me with an overwhelming ecstasy I had not felt since my first discovery of the Chamber of Secrets. Had I still been capable of tears, I feel sure I would have wept at what welled up within me as I found myself so reverentially, so fearfully adored. I was no longer a man to them, but a Dark god from distant lands, and for some moments I forgot everything and allowed myself to linger in such beautiful emotion as they kissed my robes and prostrated themselves before me and I finally wrote Tom Riddle out of existence. I was Lord Voldemort and the world had at last aligned itself as I had always known it should. _

_Arcturus tottered forward under the stars, holding the wreath of ash leaves, which was to have adorned my pyre and instead he laid it at my feet. I caught the old man by the hand, deftly helping him up and motioning for them all to stand._

_I had won their service, their wonder. Now to win their hearts: "My friends, we stand on the brink of a new age, united by the sacred Circle of Walpurgis…" I extended my hands, as if offering myself up to them…_

**L.V.H.G**

Although I sleep late, I wake up feeling exhausted. Embarrassingly, I've grown used to Voldemort getting up before me and cooking breakfast… and doing the dishes as well, I realise. It's more than a bit depressing to patter into the kitchen in my red dressing-gown and slippers only to find my travel-sized pewter cauldron still sitting on the stove, the bench still covered in the debris of last night's efforts – including the slime I had to scrape off the slugs and the bowls and pot from the vegetable stew Voldemort made. To make matters worse, we've completely run out of food and I'm not nearly as good at culinary transfiguration or summoning as he is.

I sigh, pulling my wand from my pocket to vanish the slime and start clearing space on the bench to make myself a cup of tea, unfortunately without milk. There's something reassuringly normal about cleaning up a mess, although part of me resents that it takes me over half an hour to do what Voldemort could probably manage in under a minute. Still, at least I have magic to help me – unlike muggles.

Too many things have happened since yesterday morning. I close my eyes and lean against the bench while my tea cools, wondering if I should just take the cup back to bed.

"Good morning," a quiet hiss from the doorway. Voldemort cannot lower the pitch of his high, chilling voice, but he can soften its harsh sibilance to something light and whispering. I open my eyes. He's not wearing his usual black robes, but has wrapped the faded patchwork quilt around his pale body, his hairless legs and large, finely-boned feet visible beneath it. The muted colours of the quilt flatter his alabaster skin and he seems… less like a deformed wizard and more like a new species of humanoid in his own right. I think I'm more… aware of him that I have been of any other person. The slight openings and closings of his slitted nostrils, the smooth assurance of his movements, and the emotions that can play in the large scarlet eyes which now are half-closed and sleepy, ringed with blue-grey circles of tiredness. There's something oddly domestic about the entire scene as Voldemort moves over to the bench beside me, flexes his spidery fingers and a glass fills with water at his wandless command. For some reason despite – or maybe because of – all that's happened, it makes me smile.

"…Morning," I answer blearily, burning my tongue as I take a sip of my still too hot tea. "I was going to make breakfast, but we've run out of groceries." If I focus on practical matters, hopefully we can leave yesterday behind.

He nods and drains the glass in one unhurried gesture. "You are quite right," he sets it back down, "we ought to leave yesterday behind us. Only, I confess there is one thing I should like to ask you…" His tone has no challenge to it, but he's giving me a warning. _I really need a book on Occlumency_! Voldemort copies me and leans against the bench; his red eyes narrow but his thin mouth lifting at the edges. "…What _is_ an Antisocial Personality Disorder? I confess I am curious as to this illness you ascribe to Lord Voldemort."

I wish I knew more about what happened to him on the road. Last night I got the distinct impression he didn't give me the full story, but he _was_ exhausted from blood loss. He must have almost failed, as there hadn't been blood when we were in the forest. But it's wonderful to see him making progress toward a whole spirit. "Well, I've told you before, really. It means you can't empathise the same way other people can and you can't feel remorse for what you've done… although you're just starting to change that..." _And you lie easily and habitually. _When had I forgotten that part? I suddenly worry that everything he's told me is a lie, like the lies the diary Horcrux had told Ginny, angling me toward some terrible purpose. But what could it be? Why would he fake his attachment to me? I'm not important like Harry, nor would a relationship with me help him gain greater power… rather, I'm helping him regain what he'd lost on his quest for it. And surely… _surely_ if none of it had been real he wouldn't have reacted the way he did last night?

"Serpents have no need for remorse or empathy," Voldemort replied unexpectedly. I frown as he refills his glass and takes a sip. "They live cleaner lives than we do, Hermione. Simpler and in some ways, more beautiful."

I take in his words and suddenly realise just how fortunate it was that the only snake Harry had met before Hogwarts was a Boa constrictor at the zoo. And even then he managed to set it on his cousin. But a boy who regularly talked to snakes; a lonely, strange boy who communicated with the cold-blooded animals who were possibly his only friends. _Animals_. It sounded wonderful and exotic when you read _The Jungle Book, _but it was actually incredibly sinister and I finally understood why the wizarding world had such prejudice toward Parselmouths and those with similar gifts. Animals don't have morals or higher intelligence; they lack the capacity given to us by the human brain. They might be affectionate and territorially protective, but… but no matter how many times we anthropomorphise them, they are still animals… and Riddle couldn't talk to cats, dogs, rabbits, dolphins or chimpanzees – or any animal known for affection and playfulness – but _snakes_. What had Harry heard the Basilisk saying when we thought he was just hearing voices? He said it was talking about scenting blood, hunger, ripping, and killing. To think of a child younger than eleven exposed to conversation with such animals!

Voldemort's quiet laughter isn't cruel like the callous mirth that broke me out of dreaming, or mad like the inhuman sounds which heralded Moody's death. It's silky and intimate as he smiles that slightly crooked smile of his and reaches out a hand to ghost his nails down the side of my cheek. "…Of course, they do not have our advantages. You are right, Hermione. I have memories of a time where I forgot what it was to be human. When the world was a place of scent and vibration and I could barely remember human faces; all I could do was exist, minute by minute, hour by hour…" he pauses, leaning a little closer. And for all he frightens me, it's almost impossible to look away from that red gaze. "Life is a mutable thing. I did not dare hope for another chance at regaining mortal life... nor could those shards of mine conceive an end to the agony of death. I have been shattered, changed, mended, broken, remade again, and endured trials lesser wizards could never imagine. Now I am here with you and you are mending me in another way… but that is what it is to _live_, my darling. Nothing is static for any of us."_ Was that wisdom from Lord Voldemort?_

Now his mouth is against my forehead and for some reason I don't want him to pull away. His breath tingles. I don't know what to do. The quilt pressing close against me smells like old cat (as does everything else in the tent), along with the slightly musky, masculine scent of Voldemort himself. Almost like ancient spell books without leather or paper; like the strange exhilaration before a summer thunderstorm… My stomach twitches nervously and I'm disappointed when his chin settles against my hair and he doesn't kiss me. _Am I going mad? _"You _are_ important, Hermione Granger – more important to Lord Voldemort than anyone else on earth and any creature who scorns your worth is a fool." His grip tightens around me as his wispy, otherworldly voice makes me still, not knowing what to do. How did he…? _He's been reading my mind this whole time. _Why didn't I pack _The Art of Occlusion?_ I got it out of the library for Harry in fifth-year, but I didn't even think to check it out again – too focused on my N.E.W.T. subjects and stupidly… _Oh Merlin! How could I forget?-!_

Voldemort lifts his hairless brow, staring at me curiously, before his crimson eyes go wide and blank – the cat-like pupils shrinking to almost imperceptible lines as they gaze into my eyes. "_That_ was how the boy knew our location!" he spits furiously, "Imagine if he had arrived in the room before us! If he had… _if he had_…!" Grinding his jaw, he slams his fist down on the bench, making the glass jump. Voldemort's breath is shallow and I tentatively reach over to touch his arm. He shuts his eyes tightly but lets it rest there. _What if Harry were looking through those crimson eyes now? Watching me with Voldemort? _Harry only gets visions when the Dark Lord is in states of very high emotion… _did he see what happened last night? Did he tell Ron?_

It hits me then just how far I've burnt my bridges; I remember Ron's desperate blue eyes, his lips silently calling my name as he stretched out a hand I realise I'm _never_ going to be able to take, not while Voldemort lives. _My love, __my darling__, forgive me… I __will __try… I __promise __I will try… _A chin rests atop my head. I can't leave him, not for Ron, not for anyone. What happened last night showed just how vulnerable he really is, how easily all the progress he's made could shatter. I feel sick at the thought of Harry seeing me and Voldemort like this and Ron knowing what I've done. But they'll survive and maybe, after a while, they might understand. Tom Riddle won't survive or understand and nor will his potential victims. The slight, fledgling empathy I've been able to teach him would be lost in an instant, swallowed by the murderous psychosis and the need for power that have dominated his life. For everyone's sake, I can't let that happen. I'm the only person who can help. "We need to leave here," Voldemort murmurs into my hair. "I refuse to take risks while we travel with three of my Horcruxes." But he doesn't move away, he remains there, almost preternaturally still against me.

All of a sudden he startles with a sharp hiss, the red eyes glancing around the kitchen distractedly. "W-what is it?" I stutter, unnerved.

"Someone is… calling me…"

**L.V.H.G**

I feel murderous exultation summoning me urgently across the distance, magic pressing joyously against skin. I blink, trying to clear my head of the rage I feel at a servant interrupting Hermione and I. Her face loses colour, "It must be a Death Eater," Hermione says nervously, strictly, stepping away as if abruptly cast from a trance. She says _Death Eater _the same way Bella Lestrange says _Mudblood_. That same arrogant distain, but I do not mind. I find Hermione's temper rather amusing.

"Pack up the tent," I order her, summoning my wand to my fingers and transfiguring the patchwork quilt I'd lazily wrapped about myself into a set of imposing black robes. "I shall return shortly." I stride into the lounge to gather my lovely Nagini up from the rug where she has been sleeping, lifting her around my shoulders. I intend to conclude this business quickly and return to Hermione. I was making such progress: she so _adores_ pitying me. The very least I can do is turn her feelings to account. Now she may wait for me to return, I think. Yes, this will do quite nicely…

"I'm coming with you!"

"_Where are we going, my love… my beloved? I dreamed of chasing a plump, juicy wizard…_ _so tasty_… _yes_… _Will there be fat wizards for your Nagini?"_

I ignore both ladies and slash my wand down –

– Landing in the midst of a mess of shattered crystal that slices painfully into my feet. I recognise the familiar drawing room of the Malfoy residence, but it looks as though devastated by a whirlwind. I subtly transfigure my bare feet so that I may cross the splintered jewels apparently unscathed. Much of the antique furniture has broken, the chandelier lies in shards across the dark carpet, and the gilded mirror above the empty fireplace has a large crack running through it. "_What is this_…?" I whisper to the dark figures lining the edges of the room, their eyes wide with fear.

"W-we… we had P-potter, my Lord…" the blond-haired man, who must surely be Abraxas' son, murmurs stiffly. Alas, less politic than his father.

I do not need to consult Nagini_. "Crucio!" _the Malfoy cries out and topples with a satisfying thud. I could not take my revenge on Hermione – these pathetic servants of mine will serve while her retribution waits. "You had Harry Potter and you let the boy _escape_?" The words trip easily off my tongue, along with the cold fury I had hidden from Hermione.

"Please Master… forgive us, Master…!" Bellatrix is grovelling at my feet like a whipped dog, her dark hair falling across her tear-stained eyes. My spell lifted, Malfoy joins her, reaching out a shaking hand to lift the hem of my robes to his lips. The others stand mute, clearly awaiting the blow to fall.

"Lord Voldemort _does not_ forgive…" I hiss, disgusted. The snivelling display gives me no pleasure; it is a poor, stale echo of the fealty I once received from their parents. These cowardly, trembling sycophants stare at me in terrified anticipation and – like rodents – they stink of stale fear. I see no loyalty, no reverence, and no honour in their eyes of those standing, only fear; brutal, slavish fear. Except for one pair of blank, black eyes that inscrutably observe the proceedings... "Severus," I croon, stepping over Malfoy and making my way toward the huddle of Death Eaters against the wall. "Perhaps you will tell me how my servants came to_ lose_ Harry Potter?"

"Potter was at Hogwarts, my Lord," Snape answers solemnly. "Professor Alecto Carrow caught him and several members of the Order trying to escape the grounds and called her brother and myself to assist. Together we managed to overpower them and bring them here. However, one of his allies transfigured Potter's face so that he appeared remarkably like Neville Longbottom – another Gryffindor student. There was some lengthy discussion over whether or not we had truly captured Potter. Bellatrix and the Carrows tortured Weasley and the Werewolf to no avail, whilst I returned to Hogwarts to brew a potion to reveal a wizard's true face. We were to test it this morning but, before I arrived to administer the potion, Potter killed Pettigrew and revealed himself. He and his associates escaped – along with Ollivander – with the aid of a House-Elf."

A tale too far-fetched to ever be concocted, and there is no deceit in Severus Snape's dark gaze. It pleases me that those who caught Hermione and myself in in the Room of Hidden Things were caught in turn by my servants. But I should have very much enjoyed Potter's capture – without Hermione's knowledge, naturally – and their failure is beyond appalling. "Am I to understand, then," I whisper softly, as I turn back to the rest of those assembled, "that my Death Eaters were bested by an _elf_…?"

There is a collective shudder. "My Lord, please-!" Another flings himself to the floor and most of the rest follow suit, squirming like worms. _Should I kill them? _Their abject cowering disgusts me, and I have to fight my instincts to hold back from ridding myself of them all. "_My love, let me eat them… let me rip them… yes… such tasty, fearful humans…" _Nagini curls around me, her forked tongue flicking lightly against my cheek. I reach my right hand up to stroke her coils. Perhaps it is because the memory of my ascension is fresh in my mind and the comparison is cruelly disappointing, or because my powers have grown by such a degree that I am almost tempted to grant Nagini's wish. I am like her: a snake confronted with a nest of rats, my magic spikes in anticipation and the only thing that keeps me from murdering them all is my still tenuous understanding of my own history. _It is unnecessary... unnecessary. _My left hand itches and I roll my wand between my fingers impatiently. Malfoy's torture has whetted my appetite and their grovelling teases me mercilessly with thoughts of what torments I might inflict on such insects…

So I play with them, finally obtaining some enjoyment from their screams, their delirious thoughts as they writhe about me. I take particular pleasure in torturing Severus Snape – he who robbed my of Dumbledore's demise – watching the inscrutable façade slowly shatter until he cries and begs along with the rest. And Hermione – cruel and unknowing Hermione – is the victim in my thoughts. It is the reverse of last night's memories: instead of prostrating themselves with awe, their bellies scrape the floor in pain – their pale faces up-turned in open-mouthed agony.

**L.V.H.G**

I sit on the grass trying to read, the tent packed up in my beaded bag. It's hard to concentrate when I have no idea where Voldemort is, what he could be doing. _Magic of the Mind _only has one chapter on Legilimency and Occlumency and most of it is purely theoretical – more like an introduction to both disciplines rather than any practical instruction on the subjects. It's an unusually still, hot day for this time of year and I eventually end up taking off my cardigan and leaning against a tree with the sleeves of my top rolled up to the elbows. I check my watch: he's been gone for over an hour and a half. _It must be important – they haven't called him before. _My stomach grumbles – I still haven't had anything to eat, but I don't want to walk down to Little Hangleton in case the Ministry is still on the lookout for Mary Cattermole.

Frowning, I check my muggle watch again, squinting down at the tiny golden numbers: _1.46_; _20-08-97 _– biting my lip, I gaze up at the sky, feeling something almost like homesickness. I would be packing my things ready for Hogwarts. I thought… I thought maybe I might make Head Girl. And I would be looking forward to sitting in a compartment with Harry, Ron, Neville and Ginny – full of excitement and finishing reading my prescribed textbooks for the year. I slam _Magic of the Mind_ shut. _What is taking him so long? _

I didn't see anything edible while gathering the ingredients for the Blood-Replenishing Potion… the snails and various other things had probably gobbled any vegetables up over the years as well as various more determined plants choking them out, if they'd even been there in the first place. _What if something's happened to Voldemort? What if he's fainted or… something has happened? _

The abrupt _crack_ of apparition makes me jump and knock my book off my lap. I stand up, furious. "Where have you _been?-!" _I take a deep break as Voldemort squints across at me from under his hood, donning his glasses as he adjusts the weight of Nagini on his shoulders. "I've been sitting here for almost an hour with no idea where you were! Do you know what you put me through when you just _left_ like that?-!"

"I did not intend to be gone so long – my apologies…" The spidery fingers caress the dark scales of his familiar. "I promise I shall entertain you with my adventures as soon as it is prudent. But first we shall leave here." He reaches for me to take his hand, "Will you chose our destination? I have no interest in travelling anywhere available to my recollection."

"You _are _going to tell me where you were and why you left me here." I eye him, irritated.

"Of course," he nods, offering me his splayed, spectral fingers again. "But it is necessary that we vacate this place as soon as possible. I should not like to find myself once more confronted by your associates, or anyone else for that matter. You and Nagini are all the society I desire. Please, Hermione?"

I grudgingly take his hand. "Fine. But you _will _tell me." I close my eyes: _destination, determination, deliberation… _I picture the magnificently tall trees and lines of light filtering though the far off canopy as I swish my wand down –

– falling out of blackness into leafy shade and birdsong. It's just as I remember – as if I'd returned to a moment frozen in time. Except I'm not here with mum and dad, but Lord Voldemort, who lowers his arm and lets go of my hand to allow Nagini to slide off his shoulders into the ferns and long grass. He takes a quick, squinting survey of the forest through his sunglasses. "Where have you taken us?"

"The Forest of Dean," I explain, feeling strange at having Voldemort invade the peaceful memories I have of my holiday, "I went camping here once with my parents."

Voldemort tilts his head, the darkly-red glasses regarding me blankly for a second, before he casts several warding spells and a Muggle-Repelling Charm and draws what looks like a folded silver napkin out of his pocket and sets it on the ground, waving his wand over it dramatically like a muggle conjuror. The napkin unfolds into a silvery tablecloth turned picnic blanket and within are several parcels wrapped up with grease-proof paper and string. The Dark Lord artfully transfigures the wrappings into silver cutlery and a pale green china service, revealing freshly-baked bread, luncheon ham, half a rind of delicious looking cheese, slices of salmon, relish, marinated olives and boiled eggs. Although my irritation is still present, it's hard not to be distracted by such an impressive display of transfiguration coupled with the prospect of a very nice lunch. There's even a bottle of white wine. "From the Malfoy larder," Voldemort explains, arranging himself tidily on the silver cloth. He looks so horrendously out of place in his black cloak I have difficulty remaining stern.

I sit down beside him and begin cutting myself a large slice of bread, "So why did they call you?"

"They had caught your friend, Harry Potter," he answers smoothly, reaching for a boiled egg.

Gasping, I drop the bread-knife, which clatters loudly against my plate. "_What_ _happened_ – is Harry all right? _What –?"_

"As far as I know, Potter is fine. He and his companions fled only half a minute or so after Bellatrix called me. They had already made good their escape by the time I arrived. It was merely a case of… cleaning up the mess, which took rather longer than I anticipated." He slices off a piece of egg and pierces it delicately with a fork.

"Thank goodness!" I start breathing again in a rush. "Do you know how they were captured? Was anyone injured? How did–?"

"Apparently, they were apprehended making their escape from Hogwarts. As far as I know, all survived without serious injury... you know I have promised you Potter's life and Lord Voldemort does not promise anything lightly." His cold voice is tight; he doesn't like me worrying about my friends, I can tell. But they're _safe_, that's the important thing. For a second I thought the worst. Voldemort's expression softens, "All the time I was gone, my thoughts were of you. My servants… irritate me. Their fearful noises and pathetic grovelling; so much like the ever-present wailing and whining of the little ones at the orphanage… I…" he stops, as if catching himself. A long-fingered hand reaches across to take my own, the white digits gently curling around my fingers, and I realise that a picnic – along with stargazing – is probably on Tom Riddle's list of Things Girls Find Romantic. It's bizarre, to think of my friends so far away, just escaping the clutches of the Death Eaters, and I'm having a picnic with Voldemort, of all people. _They're safe… they're safe, that's all that matters… _But it's hard not to worry.

Lean fingers squeeze my own. "…I do not enjoy their company half so much as yours." I'm still not used to his compliments. If only I'd had more experience with boys at school. Not because I regret my decisions, but if I'd been like Ginny I would be used to this sort of thing... I wouldn't be so _disconcerted_ by it and I would know how to react. Mum used to say that the reason boys my age – well,_ Ron_ – was hopeless was probably because he was intimidated by me. _Oh Ron, I hope you and Harry are all right! _I _wish_ Lord Voldemort was intimidated by me.

So I say nothing and busy myself with lunch, not knowing what else to do. Voldemort spreads a little relish onto his egg and grimaces at the taste. He doesn't eat very much at all, really, picking idly at the food. I worry he'll become even more malnourished than he already is. "You should eat some salmon," I suggest, passing him the dish. "It'll do you good."

He thanks me and takes the dish of salmon, but only makes it through half a thin fillet. Turning, he murmurs something in Parseltongue to Nagini, who circles our picnic interestedly. Voldemort picks up a long sliver of pink salmon between thumb and forefinger and tosses it into the air. The oversize viper twists upward as fast as lightning to catch it deftly in her jaws. As he throws her a second piece, I suddenly have the disconcerting thought that Voldemort's quietly fond smile would be exactly the same if it were human flesh he was feeding his beloved pet.

Pouring myself a glass of wine, I try not to think about it. "I meant to tell you this earlier, but the locket thinks Hufflepuff's Cup is in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts."

Voldemort sets the dish of salmon abruptly aside, "Is that so?" Reaching a hand to the locket around his chest, he brushes his fingers across the emeralds. "And how often has my Horcrux seen fit to enter your dreams?" I can't see his eyes, but his voice is a brittle hiss.

"O-only twice now – you don't have to worry – he doesn't like me. Quite the opposite, actually."

"Are you inferring that I am jealous of a piece of my own soul?"

Well, yes. "Um…"

He leans forward, his dark hood falling back a little, revealing more of his white features like the waxing of the moon, "Because you would be right," his thin mouth whispers, twisting into an ugly expression of greed as he draws closer, "The things _I _would do with your dreams, Hermione… you cannot conceive what I… _I would_–" His face suddenly loses all expression and he cuts himself off as he did when he was talking about the small children at the orphanage. Oddly, it doesn't frighten me. There's something chokingly pitiable and slightly mad about it and I can see the long fingers trembling with effort. "We shall visit Gringotts tomorrow. As today is a Sunday, the bank will be closed." Voldemort is gazing down at the picnic spread, not looking at me. "I am _pleased_, Hermione. I saw no betrayal in any of the Lestranges, and I do not think it likely that Potter, or even the mysterious R.A.B., would be able to steal the cup from a Gringotts vault." His voice is coolly pleasant and there is even a slight smile on his face, but he is _not_ pleased. His face is held too tightly, and the shadows under his eyes are like bruises on his papery skin.

I almost say his name and then catch myself, remembering the Taboo. "Hey…" I reassure him quietly, taking his hand and squeezing it lightly, reciprocating his earlier gesture. I can't worry about Harry seeing us – he probably already has. I'm never going to be able to escape this – _him_ – and I've never been very good as running away from things anyway. My heart is thudding with fear and I know the only way to conquer it is to move forward even though the thought of it petrifies me.

Voldemort looks up at me through his dark glasses, caught off guard by the gesture. Again, I can clearly see vulnerability in the way his ophic nostrils pant and his fingers clamp mine hard in return. I remember his stillness when I touched his arm and the soft noises he made when I bit his lip and nervously, experimentally, I lay my other hand against his back, rubbing small circles over his protruding spine. The red shine in his glasses vanishes as he closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. _"Hermione…"_ the word is thin with longing. _Like he is, _I realise. Malformed and wraithlike, cruelly warped by lack of love. "My apologies," he murmurs, straightening his back and letting go of my hand. "I no longer possess the control I owned in my youth. Everything is _fragmented_ and it becomes harder and_ harder _to–"

"It's okay not to be okay sometimes, you know," I tell him, keeping my hand on his spine.

Voldemort gives me an odd look and then shrugs my hand away and stands. "I am going for a walk – do you wish to accompany me?"

_You, evil wizard, are not leaving my sight! _"I'll just pack the food away…"

"A Stasis Charm will keep it until we return," he points his wand at our lunch and a white glow settles across the picnic. Voldemort holds out his right hand for me to take and I obediently settle my fingers between his.

** L.V.H.G**

It's such a hot day. Nagini slithers around us. Off the forest paths, we haven't met a single person – much to my relief. My hand feels sweaty even against Voldemort's cool digits. I wish I'd worn a t-shirt. The forest is beautiful and the Dark Lord is quiet beside me, perhaps revisiting his memories of Albania. He has not let go of my hand once. I watch the bright movements of blue damselflies flitting low over a small forest pool. "…When I came here with my parents we swum in a pool like this… mum didn't think it was very hygienic, but we'd been walking for two hours so dad said he didn't care…" I hate feeling like I'm talking to fill the silence, but Voldemort just isn't saying anything.

He lets go of my fingers and wanders over to the water's edge, beckoning me to follow. "Shall we swim then?" Voldemort asks curiously.

I look at the clear water – it _does_ look appealing… but with _Voldemort?_ And I haven't got any togs, either. "No, I'm… I'm fine. You can, if you like. I'll just sit down under a tree…" _Lucky I have all my books with me in my bag._

He regards me silently and then hisses something jarring at Nagini, who begins circling the edge of the pool. He dips his bare feet into the edge of the water, testing the temperature. "It is quite pleasant," he announces, as if it were a grand decree. A dark mist issues from his wand and weaves up into the leafy canopy, causing the high braches of the trees to knit a thick web over the pool, shading it almost completely from the sun. The tapering, white fingers beckon me again. "Please, Hermione – will you not join me?"

"I… I don't have any togs, sorry."

Voldemort laughs lightly and waves his wand again. A swimsuit the same Gryffindor red as my dressing-gown moulds itself together out of fallen leaves. I pick it up doubtfully. It's rather old-fashioned: a 1940s swimming-dress with a sweetheart neckline. Voldemort takes off his glasses and begins to shed black silk, which pools around his feet. _Is he… is he going to go skinny-dipping? _For some reason it never occurred to me that he wouldn't wear anything swimming. He pulls the last layer of robes over his head, revealing – to my immense relief – a pair of wide trousers in the same floaty black silk, tied with a sash at his rail-thin waist. His pearly skin arrests the eyes and I stare at Voldemort: all graceful, luminous, long limbs. There's something fragile, gangling and oddly innocent about his hairless, skeletal figure as he tentatively steps into the pool and turns back to me, shading his eyes with a hand. "Aren't you going to get changed?"

"Erm – well, I suppose… I…" I can't think of a good reason to say no. Besides, I don't really want to sit here and watch someone else swim on such a warm summer day. Stepping behind an old oak tree, I critically assess the red swimsuit. I think it's in my size. _Vintage transfiguration_, I can't help but smile at how surreal it is as I tie my hair up. _Let's just get this over with. _I glance around, making sure no one can see me crouching in the bushes, and furtively pull my jeans off with difficultly, almost falling over in the process. The swim-dress fits me perfectly. I feel terribly self-conscious looking down at my pale, somewhat flabby thighs. The bright red material just makes it worse. At least I don't have to worry about not being tanned. _Oh, this is just ridiculous! _I gather my courage and step out from behind the tree.

Voldemort doesn't notice me immediately. I watch him swim, fascinated. He doesn't swim like any human I've even seen, his whole body undulates like a cross between a white-scaled snake and a Grindylow, making remarkably little noise as his coils through the water. Narrowed scarlet eyes emerge from the pool and the gash of a mouth smiles up at me. I almost expect him to say something like _you look beautiful_ or _it suits you_, but what he actually says is "Come…" reaching out one of his Grindylow hands to me. Yet that simple, friendly syllable somehow has all the force of a generous compliment.

The water isn't as chilly as I thought it would be. The sides of the pool are steep and muddy and slimy water weeds move under my toes as I nervously slide down the bank, leaving my wand at the edge. _Why am I even-? _I yelp as the bottom falls away and I slip awkwardly into the pool, swimming away from the edge and keeping my feet up to avoid the weeds. Cautiously, I begin to stroke around the pool, conscious of the slits of red observing me. But even with the heavy shade, I don't think he can see me very well at all, as his gaze is glassy and he looks past me when I'm not moving. The water feels wonderful, but I have the strongest feeling that by entering the water I have crossed some invisible line and I tense, instinctively feeling I should get out. But I can't think of what else to do – I can't go back, not after everything that's happened. And part of me, the part of me that couldn't resist taking ages to look at the titles in the Restricted Section whenever I had permission to check out a book, even though I didn't dare read any of them; the part of me that secretly enjoyed breaking the rules with my friends even as I scolded them for it; that small, treacherous bit of Hermione that wants to discover what noise he would make if I kissed him again and to know what's on the other side of that line and can't stand teetering on this horrible, draining edge that isn't one way or the other.

His body is cold and bony behind me, but his thin, thin lips – yes, _lips_ – are soft and gentle against my shoulder. The long, wet fingers turn me around in the water and then move up across my face and I realise his eyes are closed as he inhales my scent. I quiver into him and his arms wrap possessively around me in the water. "_Hermione..._" he whispers as his flat face presses into my neck. Only Voldemort can make my name sound so necessary to the air, a needful pleading against my skin. And instead of being scared like last night, I'm strangely fascinated and confident as I watch and feel him almost blind against me, so affected. I was so wrapped up in my own feelings it somehow never occurred to me that my influence over him is as great as his power over me. Since we're both treading water, I don't have to stretch up on my toes to lightly capture his lower lip with my teeth, just lean across the small gap between us. Voldemort's breath trembles into my mouth as he lets out a delighted hiss. I do it again and there is the soft, throaty noise I remember. _Oh Merlin..._

Even though I'm not really sure what to do next, there seems to be a natural rhythm to kissing; a soft-hard-soft-hard, loose-tight-loose that's easy to pick up. My arms and legs are covered in goose-bumps and I'm not certain whether it's the cold water or what I'm doing. A warm tongue caresses my own and I shiver again. Our mouths part and it hits me anew just who I'm kissing as I stare at his angular, hollowed-out face. _What have I done? _Voldemort smirks at my expression, raises a brow, and his long fingers grip my shoulders hard and I scream as he dunks me under the water. I bob up again and cough out water. "You _git!_" I yelp disbelievingly and splash him across the face.

Voldemort ducks under the water, eluding my furious efforts easily with his quick, snaking movements, sliding around to catch me by the ankles and pull me under again. I struggle out of his grip and strike out for the shore, followed by high-pitched laughter. I whip round and slap my hand into the water, sending a huge spray toward him, causing spluttering to mingle with the laughter. Pulling myself up onto the bank, I sit on the edge of the pond, dangling my legs in the water, glaring at him until his wicked smirk makes me smile.

**L.V.H.G**

I can hardly see a thing in the blurry brightness as Hermione and I rest together beside the forest pool and I luxuriate in the soft warmth of her. But Nagini is my eyes, still on guard against the scent of anyone who would disturb us. It seems to me to be the most restful thing in existence to just lie here with Hermione. I would once have called such a thing a useless exercise in sentiment but there was an earlier time too, when I would have given my front teeth and definitely several of my toes for someone encircling me like this. That is the strangest thing about my recovered memories: as bright as each other, they do not recede with their remove from my age, but are converging on me all at once. But, despite the pleasure of lying beside Hermione's warm body, I still feel cold and have to fight off shivers. Running a hand along the curve of her, I sit up and fetch my robes with a flick of my wrist. "You're freezing," Hermione comments as she touches my arm. "I'll just grab my clothes and we can apparate back."

The picnic is still untouched were we left it. For me, it is a relief to return to the dullness of the tent and be out of the daylight, despite how pleasurable it was. Hermione conjures a bright bluebell fire in a large jar and we sit together with it between us. What I had terrified with power, I now draw in with weakness. My charming, bossy little creature is so inexplicably drawn to aid her fellows. A modern woman, she dreams of saving rather than being saved; this, I realise, was my initial mistake in my dealings with her and I am surprised, considering the circumstances of our meeting and subsequent dealings that I did not realise it earlier. This is almost certainly what ties her to the imbecilic Weasley and reckless Potter and her other lacklustre companions.

The disturbing thing is that there is no lie in the substance of my need for her. I am terrified by the prospect of her absence, of navigating my fragmented mind without her. _My Hermione… those fools have never deserved her… _I cannot stand the thought of anyone else's hands on her, anyone else granted the indulgence of her generous spirit. I would cut her memories of her friends away from her mind if there were not a risk of shattering it altogether in the process. "Are you all right?" she asks, "you've been staring at the fire for a while…"

"You are... _mine?"_ It is all I can do to soften my tone from the steely emotion coursing through me and turn the fierce demand into the question I first asked her the night before last. I stroke her hair… I want to wind my fingers into her curls and fling her at my feet, on her knees like my servants, begging to be mine, to renounce her former friends_._

_Softly, softly…_

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Has Hermione made a terrible mistake? Will Voldemort lose control? And will they be able to get the cup? _


	18. Lord Voldemort

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The eighteenth chapter of the rewrite. Hermione thinks about Harlow's monkey experiments. Put "Harlow" + "monkeys" into Youtube if you're interested and haven't heard of them. Meanwhile, we get a more of a taste of Voldemort's moral nihilism. I enjoyed a lot of the Voldemort moments in _Deathly Hallows Part II. _I loved Voldemort's bare feet covered in blood – does Voldemort wash his feet, do you think, or fly round the place with dried blood between his pale toes?

Now, several readers have asked me about Voldemort's appearance in my story: _why he doesn't look more human since he's recovered two Horcruxes and whether he is going to look normal again_? I was planning to reveal this in the story, but several other readers have mentioned Voldemort's looks, so I'll explain. I know in most fanfiction where Voldemort regains his soul (and in many where he doesn't) he becomes Tom Riddle again, but I am doing things differently here. Sometimes you can break something so badly that, even if you glue it back together, it will never be the same. He really _isn't_ human any more. Maybe Voldemort can reunite his soul, but his body and mind will always bear the evidence of what he did to himself. So_ no_, he will never look like Tom Riddle again (unless he transfigures himself or something). I realise this may disappoint many of you, but I wanted to do something different and there are plenty of good stories you can read where Voldemort becomes handsome Tom Riddle again. Also… um… I happen to find the serpent creature thing rather sexy. Yeah.

Anyway, thank you so, so much to all you gorgeous people who reviewed the last chapter! It makes me so happy to know that you guys are enjoying my crazy story!

**Warning: **Mature themes and scenes of a sexual nature coupled with heavy use of ellipses and euphemism. In other words: a tasteful (hopefully), non-explicit taste of second base because I felt like celebrating the final Harry Potter film.

**Chapter Eighteen: Lord Voldemort**

Lord Voldemort's voice is hoarse and whispering, his feline eyes darkly purple in the blue firelight, shining like jewels set into his emaciated features. The flames flickering against the glass illuminate the delicate rivers of veins beneath the Dark Lord's fragile white skin. One of the spindly fingers is gently winding itself into my still damp hair as we sit together. _You are… mine? _The thin mouth shivers as he clenches his teeth, his nails pressing covetously against my face. That long-boned hand is big enough to cradle my head as if I were a child. His possessiveness frightens me. I can't make the same mistake I did before… I can't let him dominate me out of fear. "I told you," I remind him as kindly as I can, laying my warm hand against his cold one, "people aren't possessions. You can't own them." His fingers knot into my hair painfully as his other hand falls away from my face and his mouth tightens, his eyes narrowing in displeasure – like a spoiled child. His inability to understand fills me with exasperation, but I try to keep the emotion down, away from that penetrating scarlet gaze.

The Dark Mark burned into the left arms of his Death Eaters – what was that if not Voldemort's obsessive need for ownership? He is the only wizard known to have ever turned a living creature into a Horcrux. Before now, Nagini was the only creature Voldemort felt any affection for. It wasn't enough for him to have a familiar… he needed to possess her utterly. I remember his words in the kitchen of his murdered father's house and the nails digging viciously into my wrist: _He abandoned me… they __all __did… and that cowardly __rat__… he came to me out of fear, not loyalty. He would have left me to __die __if he'd had the chance… But __you__, Hermione…__you'll __stay. _He hasn't been spoiled by indulgence, but lack of love and his Gaunt genetics which probably carried the seeds of psychosis.

I vaguely remember watching a documentary with my parents about awful experiments done on monkeys. How the baby monkey kept with only a cylindrical wire doll to represent its mother went mad and shivered and screamed in pathological fear when confronted with a strange and noisy toy. And the monkeys raised in isolation for over ninety days lost the ability to form emotional bonds, even if they were then reintroduced to the other monkeys. I had been so _angry_ that the scientists thought they had a right to drive baby creatures insane to prove a psychological theory. And I had seen Voldemort crying hysterically on the floor, just like those monkeys, on the first night in that old house; when he had regained too few memories to have any kind of mechanism for coping with them. I had seen him rocking back and forth in Mr Weasley's garage and had him beg me, again and again, not to abandon him. _That's what Voldemort is, _I remind myself, _underneath all the power and the serpentine indifference is a frightened and chronically deprived mammal._

He'd been so dominating, so in possession of himself, after reuniting with two of his Horcruxes and the memories of his childhood, that I'd almost forgotten his earlier despair. I realise now what I have to say – the source of his insecure need for possession. "I'm not going _anywhere_," I tell him, making sure to gaze as straight as I can into that livid, slit-pupilled stare. "I _promise_ I'm not going to leave." Leaning close, I pick up the hot jar of flames sitting between us, place it on the table, and sandwich his pale fingers between my own warmed hands. I rub them together, using friction to warm the unnaturally cold digits. My voice is a gentle whisper as I repeat the two words to reinforce my point: "I promise."

His eyes are oddly blank; his waxen face a perfect mask as he stares down at his elongated fingers with their sickly blue talons and grossly obvious knuckles, being held in my far smaller pink-skinned hands. His mouth is closed, but his reptilian nostrils let out a soft stream of breath. Then, with no warning, Voldemort's other hand flies from my hair and latches painfully onto my chin, yanking me closer and holding my head level with his dispassionate red eyes, searching for evidence of a lie. I do my best not to flinch, to meet his assault, trying to fling my thoughts into his scrutiny: _I'm not going to leave; I'm not going to abandon you. _"You _mean it_…" he whispers, large eyes growing even wide with emotion. But as soon as hope crosses his face, it vanishes into chilly contempt. "You would rather be here with me than with your… _friends_?" He says the word _friends_ as if the word described something filthy and abominable, lengthening the_ s_ into a disgusted hiss.

I tentatively curl my fingers around his narrow wrist, causing Voldemort's grip to slacken, and pull it into my lap, once more squeezing both skeletal hands between mine. I nod; _this is where I have to be_. "Of course I miss my friends… but I'm _not_ going to abandon you."

"Because you are afraid of me?" he murmurs quietly. "You think me mad and fear what I would do if you were not here. You care more for nameless individuals you do not know than you do for Lord Voldemort. You think I do not see it? _Fear_… it is _always_ fear…" He pulls his hands away from me and stands. "Sometimes it gives me such _pleasure_ to watch you tremble and at other times… at other times I…" his voice trails off as he gestures expansively, flexing and coiling his spidery fingers, as if trying to snatch his thoughts from the air. "The… _smell_ of it, rancid and heavy… disgusts me more than I can say."

My blood is pumping in my ears as those silken robes swirl and Voldemort's left hand spasms dangerously. His wand is still in his pocket. "I kissed you today because I wanted to, not because I was a-afraid." Lifting my chin to gaze up at him, I can feel myself blushing with the words. It's true, I wasn't afraid then, but right now with those terrifying eyes alight with madness – _now_, I am afraid of what I did. Yet there's something vulnerable about the way he paces like a caged tiger, tormented by an equation most people would intuitively understand. I think he must be as scared as I am. And Lord Voldemort's automatic reaction to fear is to instil it mercilessly in everyone else, usually with lethal violence.

He looms over me, his hands wrapping round my throat, thumbs delicate against my bottom lip. Those lean fingers, which could easily snap my neck, instead touch me with a deliberate, unexpected reverence. Then Voldemort's fingers squeeze harder, as if toying with the idea of my death. His thin lips pull away from his teeth in a demented rictus. More than anything else, I realise, he is fighting his own desires – red eyes staring sightlessly through the bars of his cage of mental illness. He literally can't decide whether he wants to kiss me or strangle me, can't quite bring himself to press hard enough to do damage, constantly tensing his hands as though trying to gain control of them. My pulse is pumping against his grip and I feel faint with light-headedness. But I've seen him about to kill, felt the way the air crackles with the exultant darkness of his magic and this… this isn't it. "You were…" the breath of his cold, sibilant voice lightly tickles my cheek as he tilts his head to the side as if fascinated "…_trembling_." I shiver again at his words and swallow against his hold, gazing at the glistening crimson sea which seems to fill my field of vision.

_Keep calm_, _don't panic. _"So were you," I manage to choke out, making no effort to escape the fingers curling around my neck, lifting my hands to stroke his knuckles with the same caution I might use to gentle a wounded thing. Letting him know I feel safe with him, trying to sooth his strange temper. I watch his face and the furious pounding in my chest alleviates as his red, cat-like eyes close, his scant lip quivers, and I know I've done it. The same wonder I felt in the water returns, wonder at how I can affect Voldemort so much with simple words and gestures, how much control I have over him.

"_Hermione…"_ The long digits slide up from my throat and into my hair as Voldemort leans in to catch the edge of my sigh of relief with his pale mouth; my lips part as the weight of him pushes me back, his body heavy on top of mine, making me sink into the cushions beneath him and I close my eyes so he can't see my thoughts. I feel it again, that aching pull at my navel as he kisses me, but I'm not afraid like I was last night. It's_ me_ with the power here, not Voldemort_. Me._ Muggle-born Hermione Granger, making the Dark Lord tremble; how could I have missed it all this time? The thought of my death caused him enough remorse to regain a piece of his soul. He _can't_ kill me. With more confidence I carefully repeat something he did to me: nipping the translucent skin of his jaw with my teeth, my reward a sibilant moan. I'm fascinated by the sounds he makes: breathy hisses and hoarse whispers that dissolve into Parseltongue. _"Ssssay it…" _he literally begs, his flat nose rubbing urgently along my cheek. Something twitches against my thigh and I only just manage to keep myself from startling in surprise when I realise what it must be. _Oh_ _Merlin, this is so wrong! _

"Say w-_what?_-!" I gasp as his warm tongue traces around my ear. "I t-told you, I'm… I'm not–"

He stoppers my mouth with his fingers, pushing them between my lips; the scarlet eyes alight with eagerness. "Who am I? Hermione_… say it!" _The fingers retract and curl around the sides of my face as he brings our noses together, the tip of mine pressing into the soft plane of flesh between his slitted nostrils.

"I – you know I can't – there a Taboo…"

Voldemort screams in frustrated fury, the yew wand suddenly in his left hand. I can feel beneath his silk robes, his whole body tensing with magic. He screams again, a high-pitched animalistic shriek, and twirls it purposefully through the air and the world tears with white noise. My own yell is drowned out by the deafening resonance of his spell and my hands fly to protect my ears. Then the sound is gone and I know what he must have done as the long, shaking fingers place his wand on the low coffee table beside us. It's completely impossible, but I know, just _know_ that he has broken the Taboo.

The serpentine features are once more close against my own, his hands caressing my hair, his tongue and teeth in my other ear, making my eardrum buzz with his aroused, anticipatory hiss, "Now… _now_, you ssshall… you _may_…!"

_Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself. _This is crazy. "V-voldemort?" It sounds shrill and awkward, the three feared syllables inappropriate and ridiculous, stripped of their power in such a bizarre context. Sharp teeth sink painfully into my ear. _"Ow!" _I yelp, "That _hurts!"_

"_Ssssay it!"_

"Voldemort!" I repeat, exasperated, rolling my eyes. "This is silly. Can we just–?"

Spidery fingers clamp over my mouth and I glare at him. "I see I must teach you how to say Lord Voldemort's name with the proper reverence…" he announces coldly, yet a twitch at edge of his thin mouth belies his displeasure. While one hand holds me down, the other snakes down between us to unzip my fly and fiddle with the button of my jeans. I jerk away from his hand in alarm and try to tell him to stop, but his fingers press harder against my face and his weight pins me as I try to wiggle out of reach. The fear returns in a nauseous rush and I increase my efforts to escape him. _Is he going to?-! _Voldemort leans down and lovingly kisses my forehead, "_Sssh_… _my beautiful one_… ssshh… I am not going to sssteal your virtue, merely… ah…" His hand slides beneath my knickers and through the sensitive hair… _down there_. I've gone completely red, I know it. Voldemort's index finger is…! _Oh Merlin…!_

His hold over my mouth has slackened and I groan against his hand. "Oh… o-oh I – I think you'd… you should probably… s-stop…"

The nail of his finger is now lightly moving with the deliberate precision of a quill. I've never felt anything quite so… _so…_ "Ought I?" Voldemort chuckles as he nibbles my ear. I can't help but moan, still wiggling but now completely without thoughts of escape. "Now… _my name.._." _He can't be serious! _"I am in perfect seriousness, Hermione." The scarlet eyes gaze down at me in amusement and I shut my eyes tight to seal off my disordered thoughts. His finger stops, dissipating the shivering pleasure between my legs. "_Well…?"_

_Oh, stuff it:_ "V-voldemort!" I'm amazed by how weak my voice is, how much effort it is to keep the word from trembling like my legs. His hand begins to move again and I can't help but sigh into his ministrations. I've touched myself once or twice – _just touched_ – lying in bed, but it didn't feel – it never felt like _this…_

"I believe there might also be a title?" The teasing finger slows again.

Part of me is appalled at my behaviour, giving in to his crazy game, but my body only cares about the deep ache left behind in the wake of his astonishing caresses. _"Lord… Voldemort!"_ I gasp it out, keeping my eyes closed, not wanting him to see just how undone I am by the sensations mounting again, spreading out like butterflies under my skin as he continues. _This is wrong, so wrong… _I feel hot and itchy all over and thrash my limbs helplessly against the cushions. Voldemort's mouth fixes over mineand, instead of distracting me, the long kiss only seems to heighten the feeling pulsing under his fingers.

"_So wet_, yesss… my love… _again_…" his murmur slips into my mouth between kisses.

"V-v-vo-o-_ohl_…" my tongue is heavy against his; I can hardly string the words together as the tingling ache grows toward something ecstatic. "D-da-_aah_…m-mo-_oh_…!" It's like being drawn upward on a great wave, pulsating along with my heart as I arch; dizzy with the astonishing heat of it.

"_Open your eyesss!" _the voice somewhere above me hisses furiously and I glimpse those glittering rubies just as everything spasms and then seeps into blissfully transfigured stillness under his gaze. Voldemort keeps his hand there until the end when my body sinks exhausted into the couch and then withdraws it – oh, I'll never be able to think of those tapering ivory fingers the same way again – and licks the long digits clean with methodical precision. "Interesting," he mutters, almost to himself, "I can _taste_ you." I have no idea what to say and no energy to express anything. He eases his weight off me a little and just holds me in his arms, his flat nose resting against my cheek.

I don't know how long we lie together in silence. I have my eyes closed, just listening to him breathe. I can't believe that just happened. _Lord Voldemort_ just… just… The wizard who killed Alastor Moody, Cedric Diggory, Harry's parents, and so many other people… _made me…_ And then tears are running down my face, all my strength washed away. I feel so full of shame, sick, horrible, dirty, but I can't summon the will to move. I got into the water today; I knew what I was doing, where it would lead. Now I've just experienced something so wonderful and all I can think of are the expressions on everyone's faces if they knew, if they saw me lying next to the Dark Lord, and heard me moaning his name. So much worse than when Rita Skeeter wrote those horrid articles about me and Viktor, _a million times worse…_

"Hermione?" Voldemort's cold question is soft against my face and I hide in the curve of his shoulder and cry.

**L.V.H.G**

I am not entirely sure why she's crying. It was a joy to stroke her, make her eke out my name in little gasps of pleasure. Beautiful noises which almost caused me to throw caution to the wind and break her along with my promise. Watching the appellation form on Hermione's sweet lips provoked me beyond anything I have experienced with her before. I used to observe girls' reactions with a distant, academic curiosity – I wished to understand the ley lines of femininity, to learn what could trigger such profound helplessness. Once I comprehended those secret intimacies, naturally, I lost interest. In the end, I hated them. I hated them for the delirious pleasure I could induce but not feel. I would never allow those girls to touch my own genitalia, of course. The idea having their dirty hands on me or of being inside such loud, filthy, lipsticked mouths was disgusting; I could hardly believe that the majority of Slytherin boys in my year spent time fantasising about the way one particular Hufflepuff girl ate her buttered toast. No, unlike my peers I had never yielded myself up to such profound ridiculousness. My arcane dreams were far more intoxicating and included no one's pleasure but my own.

Yet the sensation blossoming in Hermione's brown eyes when she opened them into mine was more affecting that I could ever suspect it would be and made me feel such… _such_… which is why her tears are so disappointing, spoiling my happiness at her surrender, frustrating and ruining my accomplishment. Still, I manage to keep the temper from my voice as I question her quietly.

"I'm s-sorry, I…" she sobs inarticulately, leaking mucus onto my shoulder, "s-sorry…" Hermione repeats the word, refusing to look up from my robes.

"You have nothing for which to apologise to Lord Voldemort." I insist, puzzled by her continued upset and masking my displeasure with concern, holding her tenderly against me. I have no intention of letting such a trifle as tears undo Hermione's growing desire.

"I… I know… b-but I can't h-h-_help it_…" I lift her face away from my neck and stare into her red-rimmed, watery gaze, attempting to divine the source of her distress… _A cold, stiff expression on the face of a middle-aged woman with faded red hair… a tiny chocolate egg… a note assembled from odd letters cut out of the newspaper held in shaking hands: 'You are a WickEd girl. HaRRy PottEr deserves BetteR. gO Back where you cAME from mUggle.' …Virulent, undiluted, yellow-green pus spilling over those same hands, which swell up with disfiguring boils… Looks of horror and disappointment written across the features of individuals I vaguely recognise from Harry Potter's mind and my time as Hermione's prisoner... Ron Weasley talking in a low, awkward voice: "None of us could have guessed Hermione would… you know…" _

Tightening my hold on her, I pull Hermione as close as I can, as if trying to wrench her away from anyone else, loathing how she allows such people to thus invade our intimacy, contaminating it with their filth. Clenching my teeth, I have to reign in the sudden impulse to strike her across the face. "_Hush_, my love, _forget them_…" I brush my left fingers over her skin, my magic cleaning away the evidence of her tears before I trail kisses along the corners of her eyes in an effort to expunge such people from her thoughts another way.

"You don't understand, I can't _put everything aside_…!"

My anger finally spills into my voice. "Would you rather it had been _Weasley's _name on your lips, _is that it?"_

"Of c-course not! This has nothing to d-do with Ron! I just… I can't help but think…" _Guilt_, I recognise it now. It overpowered Mrs Cole occasionally when she metered out a particularly draconian punishment, her face caught in just this weak-willed expression as she soaked her torpid feelings in gin, thinking herself unobserved; stewing in that most impractical and least explicable impulse in the entire gamut of human emotion. I used to think it so amusing, when I could still feel the vicious burn of the cane against my backside, that _she_ would be the one cowed and penitent whereas my resolve would only be stoked by her efforts to strike it out of me.

I think carefully about how to address this in Hermione's case, couching my censure in more acceptable words. "You were so _happy_ a few minutes ago, Hermione. Do not ruin your pleasure and mine with such thoughts. Surely we have both suffered enough to deserve some respite?" I _hate_ the language of the church: talk of suffering as payment for _anything_, of sin and nonsensical repentance, and of having to_ deserve_ what one may easily take without any invisible benediction. And for what incentive: a ludicrous paradise of perfect fiction. But I can see why priests employ such words. I learned that sitting on those hard wooden seats with the rest of the orphans, watching the open, gullible faces of those around me. How much power words like _good_, _chosen_, _sacred_ and _deserving_ really have over fools and how much pain the retraction of those precious adjectives can cause. And their opposites: _bad, wicked, unwanted, _and _undeserving_ – nothing but a clever mechanism for controlling credulous children; religion is a construct as puerile as house points. Well, Hermione is behaving like a child.

"I'm sorry," she rubs her eyes, "you're _right_… sorry… a-anyway, it was… no one's ever, I mean… how did you _learn_ to do that?"

I blink at her, not entirely prepared for the abrupt and indelicate change of subject. No girl I had known would have dreamed of asking such a thing. It was simply _understood_. "The usual way," I answer, half amused by her indiscretion – wondering whether to blame Hermione's own forthright curiosity or the mores of the 1990s. I never thought to find myself – of all people – a representative of shocked propriety.

"Oh…" she shifts in my arms, finding a more comfortable position on the musty cushions, "you had a girlfriend then, at Hogwarts?"

_I wouldn't go so far as to say that. _"Not exactly, no. I was always far more interested in my academic pursuits. I never lacked for offers, but it was as irritating as it was useful. There were far more worthy activities with which to occupy myself."

Even after such an experience, her thick hair splayed wildly across the cushions, Hermione loses none of her spirit. "Like setting a Basilisk on Muggle-borns?" her eyebrows raise contentiously.

"Among other things."

And there's the pert little frown I know so well. "I don't understand how you can…" Hermione takes a deep breath, her pretty brown eyes gazing up at me searchingly, "How you can speak about it so casually when we're like this…?"

"Hermione, blood prejudice has been part of the culture of Wizarding Britain for centuries. When I was sorted into Slytherin everyone assumed I was Muggle-born because I bore my muggle father's name. I imagine you would have suffered some slurs in Gryffindor, but being perceived as a mudblood in Slytherin was an impossible position. It took a long time, but eventually I made them fear me; in the end, not one of them would dare mention my blood status. It was amusing how gleeful some of them became when there were rumours that a student had opened the Chamber of Secrets…" I sigh, stroking her jaw and lowering my voice "In truth, I think that if Salazar Slytherin's beast had hungered after purebloods, I would have been just as eager to feed them to the serpent. I wanted so very _badly_ to belong to something grand and noble. Later, from what little memories I have, it was merely useful to exploit such prejudice. It is always necessary to nominate objects of fear and loathing – nothing unites dogs like the scent of blood and nothing keeps them obedient quite like the fear of becoming prey themselves. I despise muggles, of course, but that is a separate issue. I don't care about your parentage; the only thing truly pure is power."

"But… after what you went through… didn't you want to stop anyone else from being bullied for such a stupid reason? You saw for yourself at the Ministry how Muggle-borns are being persecuted by your followers!"

_Did she not understand what I just said? _"Why should I? Only the weak would allow themselves to be crushed by such a thing and those who are worthy survive it as we did. Have you not emerged stronger because of the treatment you received?"

"And the part where I almost _died_?"

I continue to caress Hermione's face. "I know… I targeted you deliberately. I knew you and Potter were close to solving the mystery and such a thing would provide him with the proper incentive to find the chamber himself. Ginevra saw you tear the page out of a library book and conjure a mirror. I let you keep the note, how else would that dunce discover the secret? It had very little to do with your blood. You were simply opportune. But you know how I feel about you_ now_, how much I abhor the fact that I placed you in such a position. You cannot understand the experience of your hands lifting me from the bloody floor… the comfort of your touch and the air against my broken skin; you held me – you opened the door from the… t-the unspeakable place… _my own_, my beautiful one… once more you served Lord Voldemort and he will_ never_ let you go…" I lift my head to kiss her.

**L.V.H.G**

_He can remember being the diary… the Horcrux child? _The awful, _deformed _creature barely able to move… I'm seized by the sudden fear that, if we keep on this path, Voldemort's sanity is only going to disintegrate even more. I thought the pieces of soul gave him some of his own memories back, but no… they're_ different_ memories of the same events. _That's why the locket wanted us to make sure of the order in which he absorbed his Horcruxes. It wants to be the last one. It's afraid that if any Voldemort's later Horcruxes are absorbed first, then it will lose its chance – they will alter his personality too much. That's what it meant about the door. _I had forgotten about it, but Voldemort's mad speech brings home to me just how dangerous the locket really is. _I'm such an idiot, why didn't I think this through before? _Once it's reunited with Voldemort, the locket will become Voldemort as much as the Voldemort becomes the locket… it isn't just memories, he will remember its thoughts and feelings as his own... _The sneering contempt on that waxen face, his fury at the thought of being manipulated by a girl just out of school…_ The Horcrux is betting on being able to end his infatuation with me - putting Voldemort back to what he used to be.

It was a brilliant plan, all it needed to do was help me and make sure we were focusing on the Horcruxes and not on maintaining Voldemort's amnesia… and that's why it appeared when it did, right after Voldemort regained the ring. It didn't want to give me time to remember all the implications and knew Voldemort's paranoia would do the rest – it's possible the locket only wanted us to fix the other two in order to create the fiction that the process needed to be in order, so I would believe him and not think of trying to reunite Voldemort with the diadem or Nagini – since both of those Horcruxes could close the door on Voldemort's ability to feel remorse just as much as the locket itself. Both the ring and the cup were made when Tom Riddle was very young: just before his seventh year and in his first year or so out of school. The locket obviously didn't see either of them as a threat. It could be said that the cup was the last of Tom Riddle's Horcruxes and the locket was first one _Voldemort_ made. There would be a world of difference between the two – but, as far as I can remember, Dumbledore didn't tell Harry anything about the locket's origins. _Did it really have the theory on what caused Voldemort's amnesia, or was that just a convenient lie to distract me from what would actually happen if I did what the locket wanted? _

The golden chain glints around Voldemort's neck and I close my eyes into his kisses – keeping my thoughts secret – my body still heavy and contented whilst my mind is flying. The locket doesn't understand affection, it has nothing but disgust for Voldemort's feelings for me – it probably just arrogantly assumes that once inside Voldemort those feelings will end. I have no idea if the locket's assumption is right or not. I'm deeply worried about Voldemort's sanity, either way. I thought having the pieces of his soul back would heal him. But, while it might let him regain some humanity, it will only fracture his fragile mind even more. If he regains all of his Horcruxes, he'll have seven parallel lives in his head. Eight, if I'm right about Harry. _Please, please let me be wrong about that. _It would be enough to drive anyone crazy, let alone someone like Voldemort who isn't at all sane in the first place – his juxtaposition of obsessive possession with utterly chilling disregard for the lives of others is terrifying. But I still can't help but feel sorry for him as his arms wrap tight around my waist, his mouth whispering fond Parseltongue across my skin, transformed by his attachment to me. _Oh Tom Riddle, some rules have to be kept for a reason. Why didn't you remember Waffling's Law?_

_I can't give up on him… _he's not hurting anyone right now, not when he's lying here with me, just wrapped up together on this couch. I _do_ care about him. In a funny way, he's more human than anyone I've ever known. Buried for years beneath layers and layers of madness and malice, but it's still there – the desire to love and be loved. Even in _Lord Voldemort_. Every moment of gentleness just seems so precious, so amazing. "Of what are you thinking, Hermione?" the high cold voice chuckles softly next to my ear.

"You…" He doesn't seem to notice how sad my smile is as he kisses me again.

**L.V.H.G**

…_I lay on a large bed with Nagini. "Master… my love…" Her voice is sweet as she encircles me, winding round my waist._

"_Nagini, my pet…" I sighed and ran my fingers down her scales, causing her to hiss with pleasure. No one understood what I felt for her, my deadly Nagini – she would never shudder at my touch, or shiver as she looks at me, she is me and I am her… She flicked her tongue across my face and Cleopatra drifts into my head, her beautiful body prepared for death, an asp curling at her breastbone. Yet my beloved was not my death but my life, my sustenance. Only Wormtail knew how much I depended upon her with my body which could hardly eat, and he was so profoundly frightened by it I doubt he could tell another… The power that lay within her mouth… all mine… She moved around to taste my body, black tongue testing white skin and then it began, her muscles bunched to squeeze my waist and I pushed her away, her tail slapping the bed angrily at being thwarted. I hissed at her playfully and curved my hands around her, my body undulating – all part of the rituals of her kind. We wrap around each other and finally she struck me deep at the collar and my body goes blissfully numb as it begins in my blood, which runs down my body in bright lines. On any other this wound would never heal but oh, the power singing in my veins… bequeathed to me by the ancient Egyptian secrets of Ophiomency…_

…_The sun burned in its clear sky, the Aten disk scorching the sand. The shrine was lost to both muggle and wizard archaeologists long ago yet here was I, fresh from England, a sunburnt child wrapped in dark scarves, seeking the wisdom of the snake priests in this pitiless desert. "Follow the voices to the sanctuary of the Horned Viper…" __the old man had said in his broken English… __voices, voices__… like the ancient __basileus __Alexander, a serpent led me through the Sahara to the humble hole dug into the sandy rock, the humble birthplace of gods. I descended into the darkness, wandlight illuminating faint Hieroglyphics faded over the long centuries, until a voice hissed: _"Speak!"

"I am–"

"I know what you are, Englishman," _A bald Egyptian crone, her contemptuous face unimaginably lined, sat on the floor; her hunched shoulders bearing a great cobra as old as she, its eyes glinting in the dimness. The woman wore nothing but a loincloth, her grey hair covered in beads distended breasts resting on her fat stomach._ Her eyes were as black and beady as her companion's. "Why have you come?"

"To learn from you, wise mistress…"_ I made reverence to the sage, my knees in the sand. Images of serpents, priestesses, gods and sacrifices covered every inch of the walls, the floor and the ceiling. I longed to study them but I dared not turn away from the old witch._

"You seek the life that flows from the mouths of serpents? So, Speaker, give me your wand."_ I had read the ancient texts, of course, I knew that she was bound to return it, but the absence of my wand felt like the amputation of my left hand. I didn't like her greedy look as she gazed at it, touching the yew wood with her gnarled, arthritic hands…_

…_She would not let me eat, my head spun and my whole body ached with hunger, but all she would give me was a little water, a little water, just enough to tantalize me, never enough to wet my cracked and raw throat. A trial, she'd said – but she meant to kill me, I was sure – bound to a jagged rock in a pitch black tunnel of the cave. The sigils slithered around me, swirling like snakes – or were there real serpents moving across the cave? They did not answer me, however many times I called to them. I felt as if I were back in the cellar of the orphanage. After a time I longed for even the cold screams of the sirens and the rumbling of the bombers. Anything. She would come with her yellow grin and little curved knife and carve those same shivering glyphs into my skin and anoint my wounds with strange tinctures. I was so delirious I hardly noticed her or her snake, even when the bone knife slid across my flesh. Perhaps I imagined the pictograms and the walls were covered in snakes all along? Their voices were everywhere, drowning out my thoughts, then vanished to silence and sandstone. The priestess sang in her croaking, wheezy voice and I saw her shimmering heat, heard the pumping of her heart in the floor beneath me as she put the white poison of her sacred husband to my lips…_

**L.V.H.G**

A slick noise wakes me up, and a weight on my foot. I feel so warm, cocooned up under blankets although – oddly – I'm still wearing my clothes, rather than my pyjamas. Something is wrapped around my waist. Moving my hand down, my fingers touch tepid skin and I realise what the silky weight against my back must be and crack my eyes open. The couch has been widened into a bed and covered by a blue quilt. Nagini's huge body is coiling at the end of the bed and her unblinking yellow eyes stare at me blankly. I can feel the slight rising and falling of the Dark Lord's ribs against my spine. _I guess I fell asleep on th_e _couch_. I can't quite believe I went to sleep in _Voldemort's_ arms. _I must have been more tired than I thought_.

His arm is securely around my waist, making it impossible to get up without waking him. I twist around and find myself staring straight into his sleeping face, like a long, milk-coloured mask resting against the crocheted cushions. I wriggle back around and look at my watch: it's almost eleven. We both slept late again, obviously. I'd better set an alarm for tomorrow morning so I don't make a habit of it.

I freeze as Nagini's weight shifts over my leg and up the bed. Her great, diamond-shaped head sways, coming to rest on Voldemort's shoulder and across my arm. I'm not sure if this means I'm now included in her protection or if she's staking her claim on her wizard and telling me to get off the coach and run before she eats me. Either way, I can't help but seize up in fear as her green scales slide over me. Voldemort's hand tightens against me and then lifts to run spidery fingers under his familiar's chin as he whispers to her in Parseltongue. Then he leans over and lifts my hair to kiss the nape of my neck. "You are quite safe, my love."

I will never get used to those words coming from Voldemort's mouth.

**L.V.H.G**

"We're going to just _walk in_?" Hermione seems surprised as she stuffs our tent into her beaded bag and I finish my calmative spells, feeling that peculiar numbing sensation ice over my temper and relax my muscles. I will _not_ have a seizure in the middle of Gringotts.

I stretch my neck and my arms, flexing my fingers. I feel as if I am standing atop some Himalayan peak, staring at the world through the mists spread out before me. "Well, according to you and the minds of my followers, I am currently the most powerful wizard in Britain. I fail to see, therefore, why we should make any effort to conceal ourselves in this instance. Surely no one will question why you accompany me?" I don't wish Hermione to be invisible any longer – I want her at my side and her former allies shall know exactly where she stands. I want to walk down Diagon Alley as its ruler.

"And the Lestrange vault?" She was so peaceful under the effects of my sleeping spell. I did not want her to leave my arms last night.

"I will summon Bellatrix when the time comes." I can see Hermione is nervous about the idea of walking beside me without any enchantments, along with the prospect of Bellatrix Lestrange's presence, but I refuse to address either concern and simply take her hand. She will have to cope.

"I really don't think this is a–"

_Crack._

**L.V.H.G**

The Dark Lord brings us out of the whirling vortex of apparition and I almost trip over the raised cobbles of Diagon Alley but for Voldemort's tight grip on my wrist. Then he lets go of my hand and points his wand upward, his sleeve falling away from his left arm. A plume of darkness streams into the summer sky and the pale, scant clouds above us billow and twist into a roiling canopy of storm-clouds, completely obscuring the light. I've never seen anyone perform such a powerful weather charm. Voldemort removes his dark glasses, his red eyes glittering in satisfaction under his dark hood as lightning forks across the narrow line of gravid sky visible between the tiled roofs of the alley.

The sombre Ministry posters of last year have been replaced by new ones in stark black and white, the same poster we saw in Umbridge's office; Harry's face pasted again and again across the boarded up windows and doors of shops. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is closed too. A few new, sinister-looking establishments devoted to the Dark Arts have appeared in their place. Faces press against glass and appear in the shadows of doorways only to vanish again as they glimpse Voldemort gliding along the alley, tall and black-cloaked like a Dementor, his silken robes swirling behind him and Nagini at his heels. I have to jog to catch up with him. Shabby stalls are set up outside the closed shops and sellers crouch behind their wares, averting their eyes. Even those who look like Ministry enforcers shuffle back, bowing low. No one dares make eye contact with Lord Voldemort.

"Murderer!" a man's voice rings out across the terrified silence. A lumpen figure staggers from a doorway toward us, his finger pointing accusingly at Voldemort. _"_Lord of murderers! _Where are my children?-! Where is my wife? Murderer! MURDERER!"_

"_Crucio!" _

It isn't even Voldemort who casts the spell, but a terrified, whey-faced Ministry employee. The poor man screams, twitching horribly on the cobbles and my skin prickles at the memory of Yaxley's curse. Lord Voldemort doesn't even break his stride, his bare feet simply stepping over the man's writhing figure, continuing on toward the bank. "No!" I cry at the official, _"Stupefy!" _The man is blasted backward and his victim stops twitching. I rush over to him. "Are you all right… do you need healing?"

"That's the mudblood in the paper! Hermione Granger!"

"Someone get her!"

I look up, panicked. I can't see Voldemort or Nagini and the other figures in the alley are suddenly far more threatening, closing in around me. The injured, shivering man grabs my cardigan, pulling me so close I can smell his rancid breath. "Please… I'm… I'm a wizard…" He suddenly lunges at me and I scream as I fall back against the stone, landing hard on my tailbone, scrambling madly away as he tries to grab for my wand. I stumble onto my feet. Everyone is staring at me, their wands out. _Oh no…_

A jet of brilliant red fire explodes into the alley, shattering the windows and causing people to shriek and scatter. Voldemort is suddenly beside me, his ruby eyes sparing the fleeing witches and wizards hardly more than a glance. "Come, Hermione…" his cold voice hisses as he offers his splayed white fingers for me to take. I hesitate, staring at the broken glass – just like at the Ministry. _That man, he was desperate, his family had been killed and his wand had been taken – a Muggle-born like me. Voldemort's beliefs make the world as broken as Voldemort himself._ _He would say losing his family made that man stronger… _I take the spidery fingers, feeling like throwing up. _I'm going to stop this, if it's the last thing I do I'm going to make him end this horrible prejudice, I swear… no matter what happens, I'm going to make him end it. _

As we walk closer to the bank, there are less and less people. Some of the roofs have been damaged, tiles smashed across the cobbles. When we finally get to Gringotts, it isn't at all how I remember. The bank looks like it's been through an earthquake. The façade and the walls around it have crumbled. The dome is completely gone and the massive bronze doors are buckled and hanging from their hinges. I glance nervously up at Voldemort, who drops my hand and runs, fleet-footed like a dancer, forward up the marble steps and through the cracked doorway, me and Nagini hurrying after him.

The scene that greets us is one of devastation. There's a giant hole in the middle of the once-immaculate white marble floor, as if it had been struck by a meteor. The long, polished counters and beautiful chandeliers are in ruins. Everything is disordered and goblins, witches and wizards are busy everywhere trying to mend the damage. Voldemort's presence, however, causes all activity to cease. _"What has happened here?"_ he asks quietly, yet his high, cold voice is utterly clear in such deep, terrified silence.

A goblin, his coat torn and covered in dust and the glass missing from the golden pince-nez perched on the end of his long, crooked nose, steps forward. His dignified jaw is set even though his black eyes are wide with fear and his knees are shaking. Voldemort towers over the small goblin, who – for all his dignity – cannot meet the red gaze high above his own. "My Lord… thieves – t-thieves c-came this m-morning… M-my Lord… m-m-my Lord… we t-tried t-to st-stop them… im-imposters, my Lord… broke – broke into the – into the Lestranges' v-vault…"

"Imposters?" Voldemort spits out the word like poison, "What imposters? I thought Gringotts had ways of revealing imposters? _Who were they?"_ He's circling the goblin like a snake, as if poised to strike. Everyone is backing away, leaving the one, brave goblin alone to face Voldemort's wrath.

"It was… it was… the P-potter b-boy and h-his accomplices…" _Oh Harry… _I'm torn between pride in my friend who has accomplished an impossible task and fear for Voldemort and the trembling goblin.

"_And they took?"_ he hisses, bending down to dig his nails viciously into the goblin's face, forcing the small, black eyes upward, almost lifting him off the floor. Voldemort's voice rises, _"Tell me! What did they take?"_

"A… a s-small golden c-cup… m-my Lord…" Voldemort drops the goblin, who falls to the floor, pince-nez sliding across the marble. The Dark Lord lets out a low, keen cry and the yew wand slashes down and green light erupts across the ruined hall. Brilliant green curses fly again and again; the flat face and crimson eyes are filled with a terrible, wild emptiness as his hood falls back and anyone within striking distance crumples under his ruthless wand. Lightning flashes above us, illuminating the fleeing, terrified crowd and deafening thunder mingles with their screams.

"_No!"_ I rush forward, stumbling over debris, and fling my arms around Voldemort's waist, holding him tight against me. "Stop it! _Stop!_ It won't bring it back! STOP! _STOP!_" Voldemort tries to struggle out of my grip, hissing and spitting in Parseltongue. "Please stop, _p-please, you have t-to stop!" _His breathing is out of control, he's shaking in my arms, hyperventilating. "It'll _be okay_ – we'll get it b-back – just _stop_… _You'll have a seizure! Please_ – VOLDEMORT!"

The name finally reaches him and he ceases to fight against me as we sink together to the ground. We're alone with the dead – everyone has fled underground or disapparated. Nagini is noisily devouring the dead goblin beside us, I can't watch. _"They have destroyed it…"_ Voldemort whimpers, suddenly clinging to me for support, as weak as a kitten in my embrace. "_It's gone_, we are too late_… w-we are too late…!"_

"We don't know that it's been destroyed! My friends, w-we couldn't kill Nagini – they might not have found a way to destroy it yet…"

The red eyes – the same colour as the blood pooling across the floor – widen as Voldemort looks at me as though he's never seen me before, tilting his head to the side, as the words form on his white lips:

"_Ah yes, your friends…!"_

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: What happens when Voldemort tries to track down Harry? Will the golden trio be reunited? And will Hermione betray her friends and steal the cup for Lord Voldemort?_


	19. Shell Cottage

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **The nineteenth chapter of the rewrite. My sincere apologies, readers, this is a very late update. It took me an embarrassingly long time to pull this chapter together. It's an important chapter where I introduce so many new elements and had to write characters I've never written before, and I had to think about a lot of things quite carefully and got stuck on some details.

An important thing I have to tell you, since no one specifically tells Hermione this, is that after the incident at Malfoy Manor Harry was persuaded by Remus to tell Tonks, Bill and Fleur about the you-know-whats belonging to You-Know-Who. Basically, because of Hermione's absence, Harry was forced to rely a lot more on the Order of the Phoenix and he pulled out all the stops when it became clear Hermione was in danger. Everything here diverges from the books _for a reason. _Ragnok was a goblin Bill Weasley knew from _The Order of the Phoenix _and I wanted to do something for poor Gornuk. Griphook was still working for Gringotts at this point and hadn't run off. I'm not very happy with my characterisation of Harry in this chapter, but there it is. Thank you everyone who reviewed the last chapter – so many re-reads! Love to you all and please forgive me for being so late! *kisses*

**EDIT:** After a review by the discerning **ItY'girl** I decided to change the scene where Harry confronts Hermione. I wrote it late at night and she was right, it was too mild.

**Chapter Nineteen: Shell Cottage**

It's raining. Thick droplets fall through the hole in the roof, diluting the blood on the white marble to an incarnadine wash. Nagini has moved on to her second goblin and I shudder at the awful, blunt tearing sounds of dead flesh being noisily consumed; fangs sinking greedily in, breaking and swallowing down the goblin's legs before moving to devour the rest of the bloody mess of a once-living being. Parts of the cashier still look disturbingly alive: his lolling head and neat, gold-buttoned waistcoat surreal against the dripping meaty insides exposed by Nagini's feeding. Voldemort stands – his right hand grasping my cardigan, lifting me with him – red eyes gleaming eagerly, wand twirling in the long fingers of his left hand. Pooling blood stains the hem of his robes and his bare, porcelain feet, lapping against my sneakers. My stomach is suddenly in my throat and I pull away from Voldemort, desperately covering my mouth, only to vomit my breakfast up through my fingers and all over the floor.

A strong arm wraps around me and a hand pulls my thick hair away from my face. I retch again, tears pricking my eyes. When it's over, tapering white fingers lift my chin and the yew wand silently removes the mess from my hands and face. But I don't feel clean; I can still feel the vomit clinging to my skin even though it's gone. _If only I'd stopped him earlier… I let those fingers… _Staring blankly down at the bodies of the goblins and Ministry wizards lying on the other side of the yawning chasm, I don't feel angry like I did after Voldemort made me kill Alastor Moody. Instead I feel sick and scared. "It sometimes takes time to become accustomed to nature's cruelties. I promise you will feel it less soon." The glacial voice is softly intimate as Voldemort leans down to embrace me, a hand tight around my waist. As if two seconds ago he wasn't delirious with rage. The flat face nestles atop my hair. As if they were killed by some kind of natural disaster that had nothing to do with him. _Serpents have no need for remorse or empathy. _He has no concept of what he's just done. A painful, leaden weight presses down on my chest as I watch Nagini feast on people whose only crime was to be close by when Voldemort threw a psychotic fit. My hands are shaking as I stare at such awful desecration. I know I should protest, but the words just don't come. The Dark Lord continues to coddle and pet me, but I think he's calming himself down rather than me, his long fingers pressing greedily against my skin, seeking manic reassurance of my continued existence. _But of course, he doesn't want Harry to hear what he's about to say. _My stomach twists and I almost throw up again_._ "Do not fret, my love. You must consider that you eat many creatures you consider inferior to yourself. The difference between you and dear Nagini is that she prefers them raw."

_I've officially decided to become a vegetarian. _As the giant snake finishes off the second goblin and looks like she might be going for a third, Voldemort hisses sharply and she turns – the green scales of her head dripping red with goblin blood – sliding across the wet, filthy floor toward us. She curls about Voldemort's ankles and upwards around his waist and shoulders. I want to pull away as her now sticky, lumpy body slides between us, but Voldemort's right arm is wrapped securely around me as his wand slices through the air and –

_Crack._

**L.V.H.G**

I chose the cave: I can see perfectly in its damp, craggy darkness – a useful refuge from the late afternoon sun. Beyond, I can hear the roar and swell of the sea against the rocks. Calm has returned to me with a cold resolve. _They may not have been able to destroy it yet. _The memories of being pierced with burning venom and driven through with silvery steel; broken from this world and exiled from everything but fractious torture… Like the revered alchemies of the philosopher's stone, I have transmuted leaden fear into shining certainty of purpose. It matters not what they do, what petty obstacles they place between me and what is mine, I – Lord Voldemort – will take back my precious self and their dear friend, whom they miss so much, is going to help me.

Letting go of Hermione, I watch as the cave is illuminated by the blue glow of her wand. "A-are we in the cave where you h-hid the locket?" the light trembles a little with her fingers.

I have to forcibly combat the rage that courses through me once more at the thought of my sanctuary defiled; the metal heart beating in fury along with my own at the thought of the mysterious R.A.B. – but his time will come; now I must deal with Harry Potter. "We are, though we are not in the cavern proper." I can sense bright, recent traces of the flashy magic of my old Transfiguration Master overlaying my own dark, dormant spellwork of decades ago. Our combined magical echoes reduce the possible evidence of any less powerful witches or wizards to nothing. "You know what I require of you, Hermione, do you not?"

Her voice is small and sad, "Yes, I – y-yes…." Good, she is mindful of her vow.

"I do not care how it is done. Tell them as much or as little of the truth as you care to admit – I will not insult your intelligence by dictating to you how to manipulate your own associates. Get me the cup or I will take it from them myself and I will not be merciful." Hermione's eyes are glistening and she nods stiffly. I worry I am appearing too forceful toward my lady and step toward her, irritated that she takes an unconscious step back. "I am not blackmailing you, my lovely one. That is simply what must happen should you fail. Lord Voldemort does not forget his promises – it is a last resort – far better for you to obtain my Horcrux yourself and if…" my breath catches at the thought and I put my wand to my temple, allowing a peaceful numbness to soothe my seething fear. "If… the cup is… already… gone… then you will return to me immediately. Take off your cardigan."

"…What?" Her eyes are caught between fear and confusion.

"Your forearm would be inadvisable, but I doubt anyone will think to examine your stomach for a magical signature…"

"YOU ARE _NOT _TATTOOING THE DARK MARK ON MY STOMACH!" I let go of her in surprise, as the force of her shout reverberates around the cave, shocked by such a sudden, explosive outburst. Her face has darkened and her wonderful hair seems to almost crackle with indignation in the brilliant light of her flaring spell. I would perhaps find it amusing were the situation not so serious. As it is, her shouting is giving me a headache.

"_How dare the ignorant female bare her teeth to my beloved, when she should be on her knees before him!" _Nagini raises herself up, showing her fangs aggressively toward Hermione, readying herself for a strike.

"_She is not your concern!" _I snap at my familiar before turning back to the _other_ angry female. "Where would you prefer?" I inquire with perfect calm. "It needs to be somewhere easily accessible with your wand arm."

"I'M NOT YOUR SERVANT! YOU DON'T GET TO MARK ME LIKE A DOG PEEING ON A BLOODY TREE!"

This is ridiculous, "Calm down, _you silly girl_–"

"_Master is sure his Nagini cannot eat the girl? Surely, my lord does not wish to mate with such a–"_

"CALM DOWN? _CALM DOWN?-!_ THIS FROM THE MAN WITH THE TEMPER THAT JUST COST _SIX LIVES?_ MERLIN, YOU'RE SUCH A _HYPOCRITE!_ ISN'T IT ENOUGH THAT YOU WANT ME TO T-_TRICK MY FRIENDS?-!"_

How _dare _she compare the prospect of the destruction of my soul with this fit of immaturity? "Hermione–"

"_..Useless, clumsy, warm-blooded–"_

"BUT_ NO_ – IT'S NEVER ENOUGH FOR _LORD VOLDEMORT_, IS IT? YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO–"

I ignore Nagini and – seeing no other alternative besides hexing Hermione, which would be foolish at such a time as this – place my hands around Hermione's neck and clamp my mouth against the orifice generating such awful noise, subjecting her to a rough and insistent kiss. Hermione struggles fiercely at first, but eventually goes still. Pulling away from her lips, I quickly cover them with my hand to prevent another round of screeching. "I want to_ protect you_, you _stupid girl_! Be sensible, I can already find you whenever I chose. I wish to mark you so that _you_ may call _me _if you are ever in danger. I admit, it might grant me some trivial pleasure to see the mark on your skin, but aesthetics hardly compare with your safety." I kiss her forehead as I lift my hand away, "Surely you can understand that?" Leaning down, I gently grasp her shoulders.

The wand, held tightly at Hermione's side, twines light and shadow up between us. Hermione's eyes are dark, her soft cheeks illuminated. Against the pastel wool of her cardigan, my hands seem over-long and ungainly with their sharp, powder-blue claws accidentally snagging on the material. For a moment, I am back at Malfoy Manor, shocked by my own appearance. With many memories mixed together and so many still lacking, it's easy to forget that I am no longer what I was; no longer Hermione's age, no longer handsome. She is out of breath, upset still. Her mind is full of my mark against the sky, illuminated in vivid green starlight. Above the woods where we once camped, above the towers of Hogwarts, wedded to a terrible grief I cannot grasp. Tenderly, I place possessive lips against her cheek, trying to comfort her. "I love you." I do not care for the slightly desperate edge to my voice. _Did it truly take so little for me to sink once more to such depths? Have I learned nothing? _But the words are out now, all the same, and they will persuade her to trust me.

"You're asking me to betray my friends…" Hermione's now very small voice; lioness turned kitten. "You don't understand… you've never… you…"

"Are you not _my_ friend, Hermione?" I murmur, matching her quiet tone.

"Of course," she smiles sadly, "_of course_ I'm your friend. But I don't think you're wired to understand friendship, are you?"

"Wired?" _What did she mean by that?_

"It's a muggle expression, it means… never mind. You… oh, I don't know…" She gives a hopeless shrug of defeat. "Have you _ever_ wanted a friend, apart from me, who wasn't a snake?"

"Of course I did – do not all children? But I… I was special, you see..." Things which were important to the other children were never very important to me. I would misjudge things. There were so many small rituals the others performed instinctively that I had to learn. But they knew I was different, could smell it like the pack of animals they were, and eventually they discovered that hurting me could make strange things happen. A topping game, they thought, at first. "…Naturally, they were jealous of my abilities. Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite… and how could mere muggles possibly compare to Lord Voldemort?"

**L.V.H.G**

How could Dumbledore – that kind, brilliant, wise old wizard – not have considered that a boy who was terrified to being locked up in a mental hospital might actually have needed psychological help? Wizarding society has so much to answer for. Tom Riddle had created Lord Voldemort as an ideal, a shield against a world he didn't understand and probably never would. And the sorting hat tossed this brittle boy into Slytherin House, where he was tormented and ostracised until he learned to make them fear him too. His hand is on my cheek, still tingling from his kiss. "We are wasting time." The cold tone brooks no disagreement, patience gone. "Where will you have the mark? It is the only way, Hermione."

Well, actually I can think of several different ways, including something involving a Protean Charm, like the coins I used for Dumbledore's Army… or Portkey with a Locating Hex. But the Dark Mark doesn't rely on any object and I don't think Voldemort, paranoid as he is, will accept anything less. I can't believe I'm really going agree to this, to have Voldemort's mark burnt into my skin. I slowly bend over and untie the laces of my left sneaker and pull off my sock. Sitting down on a rock, I point to the underside of my foot. "Fine. There – put it there."

Something ugly and taut in Voldemort's expression reminds me unpleasantly of the locket as he stares at my foot with utter distain, red eyes glaring. He gives a small sniff of disparagement through his tiny nostrils, but crouches in front of me, his chilly fingers brushing against the sensitive skin, before his right hand grips my ankle and the tip of his yew wand traces over my foot. I automatically try to pull back from the ticklish sensation, but Voldemort hisses gently, like a man trying to shoe a nervous horse. My heart is thudding loudly – _I can't believe I'm doing this…! _I had wanted so much to see my friends again, but not like this. "It won't hurt…" he whispers, "I promise." I can feel the heat of his magic pouring into my skin as his wand moves across my skin; his effortless, euphoric magic pulsing through me – just as when he possessed me. _How is it possible for one wizard to have so much power?_ But it's over almost as soon as it begins. Voldemort lets go of my foot and I peer at the tattoo. Red and vivid against my skin: a skull with a snake curling out of its mouth. The Dark Mark. The sole of my foot feels warm and tingles uncomfortably – like a bad case of pins and needles. Voldemort stands, watching me silently as I put my sock back on and lace up my shoe. "Now, give me the diadem."

Experimentally, I stand on my left foot, expecting to feel something – but the sensation is gone. Opening my beaded bag, I summon the black jewellery case out from beneath the tent and all the books, handing it to Voldemort. It blends into white skin and black silk – perhaps a Notice-Me-Not Charm? The Dark Lord tucks it away in one of the seemingly endless pockets of his robes. Voldemort draws his hood over his face and dons his glasses. "Have you given thought to what you will say?"

"Yes," I nod, not wanting to tell him.

"Good." Suddenly Voldemort slips away like the jewellery case, into the shadows of the cave, as if he'd been made of smoke. Something wraps around me, half solid and half twisting magic and I yelp as it lifts me effortlessly into the air, smoothly entwining me in its black, silky coils, slipping into darkness –

– And out into a fierce, salty wind and bright sunlight. It takes me a moment before I realise that I should have crashed into the earth by now. I can hear the cries of gulls and see, far below me, the white crests of waves rolling out onto sand. The restless magic is still wrapped tight about me, but its colours are those of sky and misty cloud. For once, I can see why Harry and Ron love flying so much – there's a pure exhilaration to it that shocks me out of my fears. I know Voldemort won't let me fall. "You have three days. Return to me soon, Hermione," a chilly, breathless voice whispers, at once far away and pressed close against my ear – words snatched away on the wind. My left foot prickles and ghostly lips press against mine for a long moment as we slide gracefully downwards through the air, away from the beach towards chalky cliffs.

Then there's an abrupt _crack_ and I'm falling over into sandy grass. "Voldemort?" I whisper, glancing up at a small cottage in the distance. Its whitewashed walls are embedded with shells and encircled by lovely flowerbeds. No one answers me – Voldemort has gone. I'm alone with the wind and the sea.

Getting up, I straighten myself out, going over what I will say in my head. Without Lord Voldemort to distract me, walking by myself to meet my friends who must be staying in this lonely house on the cliff-top, I feel a hundred times more nervous than I did before. The door is open and a mobile of pearly shells and feathers sways and jangles in the breeze. "Hello?" I call, not wanting to just walk inside, _"Hello?"_

"Ello?" calls back a musical voice I recognise as belonging to Fleur Delacour – now Fleur Weasley. A sounding of footsteps and there she is, her beautiful blond hair done up in a bun, wearing a pretty apron over light floral robes. Her pale eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "'Ermione? 'Ow did you find us through ze Fidelius Charm? Bill did not tell me 'e gave you ze location..."

"_Hermione?-!" _Frantic feet fly down creaking stairs and Ron pushes past Fleur to almost bowl me over in a tackle of a hug.

"Ron!" I gasp, the breath knocked out of my lungs.

"What is your full name and what form does your patronus take? What piece were you in McGonagall's chess game?" Harry's voice cuts sharply into the moment, causing Ron to jump away from me hastily. Harry, Remus Lupin, Bill Weasley and Tonks have joined Fleur and are all crowded into the doorway, staring at me. Harry's right arm is in a sling.

I take a deep breath and gather my courage. "Hermione Jean Granger, my patronus is an otter, and I took the place of a rook."

"You escaped!" Ron flings his arms round me again. Over his shoulder, I can see that Harry's face is stony and Remus Lupin looks more worried than usual.

"But how did you find us, Hermione?" Lupin frowns, "No one should be able to broach a Fidelius Charm without being given the location by the Secret Keeper…"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Ron grins at me and then back at everyone else. "She did it the same way we did – Hermione knows all about House-Elf Magic! What with SPEW and everything!"

Which would be a _really_ good cover story, but I can't do that. I can't lie to my friends. My face is going bright red, I can feel it. Everyone is looking at me. "It's… it's… S – P – E – W, Ron…" I find myself saying faintly – automatically – waiting for my mouth to catch up with my brain. _You are a Gryffindor, Hermione Granger… Friendship and bravery… Gryffindor… _"Well, y-you see…"

"_Brilliant_... I bet You-Know-Who never saw it coming!" Ron enthuses, looking so handsome and happy, his blue eyes sparkling.

"Uh… well, the thing… the thing is… I – um – I didn't _really_… well… escape." Silence. Everyone is staring at me. "Vol – I mean – You-Know-Who found out you took Hufflepuff's Cup from the Lestranges' vault and he… sent me to get it back."

"But I didn't tell either of you the location," Bill Weasley says, his scarred face frowning gravely, "How did you find us?"

"He… he can find people… anywhere. Wards, Anti-Disapparition Jinxes… even the Fidelius Charm doesn't matter to him anymore. He actually _broke_ the Ministry's Anti-Disapparition spells… I think he might have discovered the secret to spell-less magic."

The colour drains from Remus Lupin's face; the only one who knows just how grave what I just said really is. "I thought he had amnesia? We should move – it's not safe–"

"I'm afraid there isn't any point. He can find anyone he remembers, and he's recovered a lot of memories. My current theory is that – since he had highly developed magical control as a child, effectively _using_ his magic rather than just accidentally making things happen – when he lost his memory he regressed to the simple, intuitive grasp of magic he had as a child. At first I thought he was casting spells from his procedural memory, but he's not. Harry's told me that, as a boy, he could consciously control animals, make people feel pain, and perform basic telekinesis. However, as wizards and witches age, their magic grows more powerful. According to Waffling, the age of full magical maturity is around fifty to sixty, depending on how powerful that person is. A wizard like You-Know-Who would probably reach his magical prime later than most, maybe somewhere closer to seventy. Now, most adult wizards are incapable of spell-less magic; we haven't been taught that kind of primitive magic since Merlin's time, mainly because it's almost impossible to achieve the power and concentration of will required to perform it. But V-You-Know-Who is possibly the most powerful wizard alive… with pathological drives which would increase his force of will far above the level of an ordinary wizard. In a way, Ron's right_, is_ using his magic just like a House-Elf. Wards are designed to prevent _spells_ from penetrating them, and House-Elves–"

"How did you get him to trust you?" Tonks interrupts, her currently sandy hair rippling in the breeze.

"He… he gave me three days to peacefully persuade you to give me the cup. Otherwise he's going to come and take it himself."

"You'd better come in, Hermione," Harry gestures with his left arm, his voice acerbic and his green stare accusatory. _He's seen me, _I realise. _He's seen what I've done and he hasn't told the others. _"…Looks like we've only got three days to come up with a plan."

**L.V.H.G**

Alone with Nagini in the darkness of the cave, I cannot help but regret Hermione's absence. I miss her - when I am without her I experience the horrible sensation that I am walking through my own memories, unsure of what is now and what was before. I fish Hermione's silver cigarette lighter from my pocket. I had found it on the floor of the tent. What had it been called in Hermione's mind? A Deluminator, yes… that is its name – an object Ronald Weasley considered desperately important for my Hermione to have. It could be anything from a simple keepsake – though I cannot imagine Hermione picking up such a filthy habit – to a weapon to use against me. I rub my thumb over the intricate patterns embossed on the silver and perform a series of tests with my wand – detecting several charms for the transmission and storage of light. Curious, I flick it on: a small, faintly pulsing ghost of a bubble issues from the object. It's accompanied by a tiny, garbled whisper that almost immediately quiets into nothingness. For a moment, it looks as if the light might be coming toward me and I take a step back. I need not have been concerned, however, as the faint sphere fades almost as soon as it appears. I wonder if it might not be working correctly to produce such a poor effect and try again. The second sphere is even more misty and insubstantial – hardly there. It fades away in seconds. The third click produces nothing at all. I shove the lighter back in my pocket – obviously the device is either next to useless or broken.

I have no intention of giving Hermione back an object which reminds her of that puerile fool, however useless it might be. _"Master?" _Nagini noses my leg, _"Must we stay in this cold place?"_

"_We shall leave soon, dear Nagini…" _I mollify my familiar, _"there is something I must do first." _I walk over to the entrance to the hidden lake, which – though I do not remember it – I must have sealed long ago. Closing my eyes, I feel my way toward it with my wand, touching the magic that becomes darker and more entangled as I draw closer to the crack where blood magic, thick and greedy, coats the stone – demanding to be fed. I pull away the threads of my incantation and the rock vanishes, revealing the familiar archway into the cavern beyond. _"Stay here, my pet. Guard the entrance until I return."_

**L.V.H.G**

We spent the next few hours swapping stories. I gave them an extremely pared down version of what had happened: Lord Voldemort and Hermione Granger – the condensed, expurgated edition. Harry and Ron had disapparated to London after the wedding and had ended up holing up at Grimmauld Place. It turned out that R.A.B had been Sirius' brother, Regulus Arcturus Black. Ron had discovered the matching initials on the door of his room. They then found out from Kreacher how Regulus had discovered Lord Voldemort's secret. "It was horrible, Hermione," Ron explains "No one deserves something that that, not even that creeping little bastard. You-Know-Who asked to borrow Kreacher and took him to the cave where he hid the locket and made him drink the same horrible potion as Dumbledore and left him there to be killed by the Inferi. But Kreacher managed to disapparate and make it back to his master." Of course, Voldemort would have considered the ways of House-Elves far beneath his notice, just like all the pure-bloods who treat them like animals. It would never have occurred to him they might have magic he didn't. I had just been in that cave. I just could imagine it: a white, snake-like face vanishing into the darkness… those red eyes staring pitilessly at the poor elf, like they stared at the bodies of the goblins. Despite everything, I have a sense of fierce triumph that Voldemort paid for his awful treatment of Kreacher. I shiver, and Ron and Tonks' sympathetic glances make me feel even guiltier than I already do. "So Regulus got the elf to take him back there and swapped the lockets. The he drank the potion and told Kreacher to leave him to be dragged under the lake and to make sure the locket was destroyed – but he couldn't do it. You remember that locket we found while we were cleaning the house?"

There _had_ been a locket, hadn't there? _I can't believe it! _"But how did it end up being on Umbridge's possession?" I ask, still sick to my stomach after what happened to poor Kreacher.

"Mundungus Fletcher," Harry grates out. He hasn't spoken one word this entire time. "He ransacked the place after Dumbledore died and gave it to Umbridge when she asked for his licence in Diagon Alley. Ron, Remus and I infiltrated the Ministry to get it – which is where we met you and _him_. He killed her for it, didn't he?"

_Yaxley's head staring at me across the floor… _"Not really. He hadn't remembered about Horcruxes at all, actually. We were at the Ministry because he – well, we ran into some Dementors and he fainted just like you did in third year. I couldn't get us away in time and we got caught be a group of Ministry enforcers. The only thing I could think of was giving him Polyjuice Potion to look like me." There's some incredulous laughter. "So Umbridge thought he was my sister. We were going to be tortured for information about you, actually Harry. But he killed Umbridge and Yaxley and ended up giving me the–"

"Wait, Mary Cattermole is_ You-Know-Who_?-!" Tonks exclaims.

Bill Weasley raises his eyebrows, "Do you mean that Muggle-born witch who supposedly killed two teams of aurors single-handedly? I thought they were just making that up."

"They weren't aurors – they were _one_ team of snatchers who had caught Mrs Cattermole. I managed to convince Vo-You-Know-Who to help her, but his interpretation of 'help' was killing them all." I shake my head sadly. Talking with my friends – my normal, _sane _friends – about Voldemort's crimes truly rams home just how hopeless he is. "I helped Mrs Cattermole to disapparate. I don't know what happened to her after that. Anyway, You-Know-Who only worked out what it was when you told me to give it to you." What is he doing now, when I'm not there to stop him? _Please don't let him be hurting anyone else…_

"He thought you had betrayed him," Harry comments seriously. "I thought he was going to kill you – _he _thought he was going to kill you. My scar hurt so badly I almost didn't make it out of the Ministry. Once we were out, I tried apparating us to where you were, but Voldemort put some kind of black barrier around the place. Not even my patronus could get through." There's something dangerously level in Harry's voice, but no one else seems to notice.

"We tried finding you, Hermione!" Ron takes my hand, "Harry had a vision when you told You-Know-Who the ring had been destroyed. We were so worried he'd killed you!" The fingers which squeeze mine are shockingly warm. I'm so used to Voldemort's icy hands that real, human warmth seems strange, damp with sweat. "It went fuzzy after that, but Harry managed to see that he was going to go looking for another Horcrux at Hogwarts."

"That was when we got in touch with the rest of the Order," Remus Lupin explains. "We'd had to abandon Grimmauld Place and were staying with Tonks' mother. Harry got Kreacher to make contact with Alastor, Kingsley and Minerva and get us into Hogwarts. We saw you and Tom Riddle – which is apparently You-Know-Who's real name – disappear off the map on the seventh floor…"

"Is Auror Shacklebolt all right?" I asked, remembering seeing him fall.

"'E is recovering in ze 'ome of Bill's aunt," Fleur explains. 'E was lucky to be alive after going for so long without treatment for zat snakebite."

"We were going to Floo out of McGonagall's office and then disapparate elsewhere, but we were seen by this Carrow woman, who called for reinforcements. Snape overpowered Remus, then Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of other Death Eaters turned up and it all went downhill from there. McGonagall managed to get away in her animagus form to find help and tell the others what had happened, but everyone else got caught up in it. Then Ron got this brilliant idea–"

"It just popped into my head! _Really_ complicated transfiguration, Hermione, beyond NEWT level! I just sort of… _did it._ Transfigured Harry's face so he looked like Neville – I don't know why I picked Neville, it just sort of _came_ to me…"

"It was amazing," Harry shows the first sign of enthusiasm I've seen, "it completely fooled the Death Eaters – they couldn't decide whether I was really Neville or not. The Carrows said they were positive it was me, but Snape said he only saw Longbottom. So they took our wands and we got shoved in the cellar of Malfoy Manor where they were keeping Ollivander. Snape and Bellatrix got into this huge argument; we could hear it from the cellar. She was accusing him of lying and he pretty much told her she was a loony, arrogant bitch–"

"'_Arry!"_

"Sorry, anyway, then she starts going on about how she's _the Dark Lord's most trusted, _and how Snape wouldn't dare talk to her like that if he knew what was in her vault. Snape had no idea what she's talking about, obviously, but I immediately suspected what it could be. But we only managed to escape because Dobby…" Harry suddenly bites his lip and looks away.

"Dobby turned up and got Ollivander and Shacklebolt out first," Ron says softly, "McGonagall must have sent him. We managed to overpower Pettigrew – _Merlin, it was horrible!_ That silver hand of his strangled him to death for not being able to kill Harry." Ron's face turns slightly green at the memory. "We caught them flat-footed, but Greyback had Remus. Then Dobby came back and completely got the drop on them. Harry tackled Bellatrix and I managed to overpower Draco Malfoy, not that _that _was ever particularly hard…" he rolls his eyes and shows me Malfoy's wand. "Dobby was _brilliant_. You would have loved it, Hermione. He shouts out 'Dobby has no master!' blasted back the Death Eaters and got us all out… except that evil bint got him with her knife…"

Everyone bows their heads. I can't believe that astonishing little elf who believed in freedom so passionately is dead. _Goblins, House-Elves, why should they have to suffer for a wizards' war? _There are tears running down my cheeks and I have to repress a sob.

"It was Bill and Fleur who got us into Gringotts," Harry glares at me, as if I were responsible for Dobby's death. _I am, aren't I? If I had managed to make my Patronus work, they never would have gone to Hogwarts to rescue me! It's my fault… _"They persuaded a goblin called Ragnok to talk to one of his mates – Gornuk – into helping us from the inside. We'd run out of Polyjuice Potion, but Tonks got herself up as Bellatrix Lestrange and managed to fool the clerks." Tonks shoots Remus Lupin a triumphant smirk. _Did he try to stop his girlfriend from helping, I wonder?_ It doesn't seem like something he would do. "We managed to get the cup, but we barely made it out alive."

"Would you believe there really _was _a dragon down there?" Tonks stands up, stretching, and moves to sit on the back of the couch, behind Remus Lupin, "Those goblins had abused it horribly. But we managed to free it and it got us clean out. The problem was when we tried to disapparate back here once we'd cleared the Anti-Disapparition Jinx on Diagon Alley. I…" her cheeks redden, "the dragon almost ran into a muggle aeroplane and I splinched Harry…"

"I've told you it's fine, Tonks," Harry shrugs, "it happens… Anyway, I've thought of a plan." He turns back to me, "Didn't you say that he couldn't sense the pieces of his own soul?"

"Yes…" I reply hesitantly, very much afraid I know what Harry's plan might be.

"So he won't know if you don't give him the real cup?" Harry's eyes glint like freezing emeralds. His voice is almost sarcastic, but I can't quite tell.

I sigh, "It's a good idea, but you're forgetting that he's a master of Legilimency. Even if he didn't notice the difference, he'd be able to see it in my mind and, besides, the locket would be able to sense that the cup wasn't–"

"SHE'S NOT GOING BACK TO THAT MONSTER!" Ron is standing up next to me, beetroot red, glaring angrily at Harry. _Should I tell them he's going to reabsorb the Horcrux? _If I tell everyone that, they'll ask how Voldemort is able to feel remorse… and why I didn't tell them earlier. Oh, this whole situation is _awful!_ I'm awash with guilt at how bravely Ron is defending me. _If he only knew…!_

**L.V.H.G**

Reverentially, I slip the Diadem of Ravenclaw beneath the luminous green potion, into the same stone basin that once held my locket. It is obviously imprudent to have all my Horcruxes with me as I travel and the diadem is harder to conceal than the locket and enchanted to prevent it from being shrunk. This place is already superbly defended and neither Harry Potter, nor the mysterious R.A.B., would ever think of looking for a Horcrux where they have already found one. The potion is one I remember creating in my student days, although obviously I had modified it since that time, judging by the changes in its colour and scent. Its glow lights the cavern with the same dim green of the Chamber of Secrets – perhaps some sentimental impulse on my part? I had called it the Draught of Despair and tested it extensively on muggles when I went back to the orphanage after fifth year. Only spellwork is monitored by the Ministry of Magic. The effects of potions fall beneath their notice. I remember it being highly efficacious.

I step around the pedestal, enchanting the smooth rocks to alert me should anyone set foot on the island. I had always assumed that I would know if my Horcruxes were in danger, would feel it, but now I know that to be a false assumption, it makes sense to place proximity wards around my precious soul. I consider carefully, before eviscerating the small, ghostly coracle. I have no need of it any longer and the enemies of Lord Voldemort may attempt to traverse a lake full of Inferi without charmed passage and see how far they get. I disapparate back across the black, corpse-laden lake and recast the blood wards behind me.

**L.V.H.G**

Dinner is uncomfortable – Ron still hasn't come back after storming off earlier and Harry is glaring at me across the table. Fleur has cooked steak_. __You must consider that you eat many creatures you consider inferior to yourself… _I hear Voldemort's chilling voice as I stare at the meat on my plate, and all I can see are hacked up bits of something that was once alive. It still smells of blood. "This looks great, Fleur – thank you," Remus Lupin nods, cutting his up.

Fleur smiles, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder; a fond look passes between them before Fleur turns back to Lupin. "Ze British overcook their meat, I 'ave always said this."I pick at my salad, trying to muster up an appetite and failing miserably. "You must 'ave been starving, 'Ermione – after travelling with You-Know-Oo."

"Oh… um… not really, I–"

"Hermione, can I talk to you outside?" Harry's chair scrapes against the floor and his voice is heavy with the conversation we've both been waiting to have. I nod, thank Fleur, and we both slip out into the garden.

Harry paces on the grass, as if trying to find words, his face pale, his glasses slipping down his nose. He's beside himself, as if what he has to say is so great it couldn't possibly fit out his mouth. "Harry?" I ask tentatively, wary of provoking him.

_"I saw you-"_ the words spit out in choppy staccato bursts "You and - and... and _him!_" He shakes his head, not looking at my eyes, "Last night... _after all everyone went through!_ Hermione… I felt his _happiness_ when you _begged him_!" _Oh Merlin, oh no... he must think..._ Harry's hoarse,vicious whisper is strangely reminiscent of Voldemort's. He's shaking his head, backing away from me, looking up to fix me with his betrayed eyes. "He killed _my parents_. He killed Mad-Eye! He killed Cedric! He's responsible for Sirius' death - he's responsible _everything_ that's happened!" I think the only reason he isn't yelling is because he doesn't want the others to hear.

"Harry-"

_"Ron's been beside himself for weeks and so have I, thinking you were in danger! And you - you've been shagging the Dark Lord–! Screaming his name!"_

_"It's not like that!"_ I exclaim, wishing I could stop my eyes from watering again. "It - it just _happened_ – I couldn't say no to him, Harry… I-I was trying to help you! I've... I've always... I've been trying to help _everyone_." My voice is an unrecognisable squeak. My face is burning and my eyes are blurry with tears.

"You've been trying to _help me_ by _sleeping_ with Vol-_him?-!_" Harry's left hand is a fist as he stares at me incredulously, looking like he would curse me if his wand-arm worked, his voice swimming with fierce sarcasm.

"For your information, I _haven't_ slept with him!" I hiss back. "But he's… he's obsessed with me. Harry, so obsessed I managed to stop him killing a unicorn and the rest of the goblins at the bank. I've even made him feel remorse and I know how to get him to reunite his Horcruxes with his soul._ Please_ - I know what this must look like, Harry, but _I'm telling the truth!_ You've known me for_ six years, Harry! _You have to believe me! That's what he wants to do – reunite his soul! - you don't _need_ to kill the piece of soul inside the cup. You don't need to become a murderer! Give it to me and–"

"_How stupid do you think I am?"_ Harry is shaking his head, his green eyes furious and utterly disbelieving. "The_ only reason_ I haven't told the others is because I think it would pretty much break Ron! _How could you_, Hermione? How could you - with _that_ - that _evil, depraved-" _Harry bites his lip and blood trickles down his chin, his glasses askew._ "That monster?-!"_

"Harry, _please–!_"

But Harry shakes his head in livid rage and walks back inside, his face contorted with disgusted contempt. I clutch my sides, fighting off fresh tears.

**L.V.H.G**

The night is cold and the sea murmurs like a great beast far below. Thoughts toss like waves in my mind, preventing me from sleeping. For a moment, I catch myself wishing that Voldemort were here, lying beside me, a skinny arm wrapped around my waist. My left foot prickles at the thought and I rub it against the mattress. I don't know what to do. It hurts to think of Ron, who found me outside and put his arms around me in wordless support. _It's okay, 'Mione, I won't let him hurt you again. _It hurts to think of Harry's righteous fury that I... I deserve it. I _wanted_ Voldemort to kiss me, Merlin help me! I let him give me the Dark Mark because... because I knew it would calm him - I let him burn it into my foot because I was concerned with _Voldemort's_ feelings!

I can't _bear_ the thought of stealing the cup from my friend, but I doubt anyone will ever believe the truth. If I can't think of something before the day after tomorrow, I'll have to steal it. I can't let Voldemort hurt my friends. _If only there was another way..._

I get up, restless, and open the curtains – gazing out into the vast expanse of dark ocean and the stars suspended above it; the view reminds of sitting with Voldemort on another cliff-top. A murderer, a merciless, paranoid psychopath. I open the window and grip the sill, gulping in the cold sea air. Something bright and silvery suddenly catches my eye, out on the grass, past the cottage's garden. _Is that Harry's Patronus? _But Harry can't cast any spells at the moment because of his arm, so it can't be his.

Grabbing my dressing-gown and knotting the cord tightly, I pull on my sneakers and slip downstairs as quietly as possible, wincing every time the stairs creak. Outside, I crouch down – wand ready – and hide behind the flowerbeds. It's not a stag, but a beautiful silver doe walking sedately along the edge of the cliff. Silhouetted against its brilliant light is a human figure. _Harry? _The patronus turns to regard him, and then slips off the edge. Harry disappears after it.

I rush forward, my devastated scream lost in the freezing wind. But Harry hasn't fallen and neither has the mysterious doe. There's a steep, narrow path down the face of the cliff, leading to the jagged rocks exposed by the low tide. I wish I could fly like Voldemort as I tentatively make my way down the slippery path, clinging to crumbly, chalky rocks to stop myself from falling. Luckily, it's a clear night and the light of the moon, almost full, is just about enough for me to see clearly, as I can't spare a hand to hold my wand.

Harry has reached the base of the cliff. I look down to steady myself and when I look for it again the doe has vanished, leaving Harry alone among the rock pools and the spray. I can just make out his dark figure bending over, lifting something from a rock pool. I try to hurry, but I can't go very fast, as the path gets narrower and more slippery the closer to the bottom of the cliff I get. As I make it to the rocks, I can see what my friend is holding: Gryffindor's Sword, its rubies glinting in the darkness like Voldemort's eyes.

I call out Harry's name, but he doesn't appear to hear me against the roar of the sea as he takes something out of his pocket, shining golden as he places it on the wet rock. _The sword…_ of course… it's goblin-made! That means_… that means…!_

"HARRY, _NO!_" I run toward him but slip on the rocks. Pain shoots through my ankle and I yelp as I land hard on my side, helpless as Gryffindor's blade catches the moonlight, its deadly steel flashing downward to strike the Horcrux –

- And shatter to pieces against the golden cup. "Harry!" I call again, the pain in my ankle spiking as I try to get up. Harry is staring in horror at the pieces of shining metal littering the black rocks like stars, the ruby hilt falling from his left hand to clatter to the ground. Hufflepuff's Cup lies innocuously amongst the silvery shards. It can't have been the real sword - a true goblin-made blade would never break like that.

_Why would someone give Harry a fake sword?_

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: What happens when the Order of the Phoenix run out of time. _


	20. The Open Window

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters:**Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **Oh my goodness, we're really up to chapter twenty! This has moved so far beyond the original twelve chapters I wrote that I am no longer going to refer to it as a rewrite – it has really gone its own way now! I was_ so_ excited to see all your reactions to the sword shattering – even though I do feel a guilty about my cliff-hangers. We have to take a few steps back here, and see what Voldemort has been doing since we last caught up with him in the cave. It's important to remember that the Sword of Gryffindor was put in the Lestrange vault only after the D.A. tried to steal it from the Headmaster's Office. But because the Gringotts break-in happens earlier this story – before term starts – the sword was never deposited in the vault.

I know it's such a cliché to hear writers apologise for taking so long, but I really do feel terrible for leaving it for so long. More than that, I can't remember which reviews I replied to and which I didn't, which is very distressing because I love you all very much, but I'm afraid to reply in case I've already done it! So please, please, please forgive me and I'm terribly sorry. You guys are the best part of my day and all I'm doing is going _wibble wibble_ and not replying.

Anyway, story now. You've waited long enough!

**Chapter Twenty: The Open Window**

I do not like it. I do not like being without Hermione and I do not like not liking to be without Hermione. Her absence crawls across my flesh, itching like a skin loose but not yet shed. I miss the smell of her which lingers in my mind, and the perfect ease of pulling her warm, mammalian softness close. So many of my memories contain a serene independence; I considered myself to be utterly removed from the rest of what was once my species. But it is not so simple any longer. I am weak with want of her, tormented by jealous longings as I was when a small child. She is with her friends; those disgusting, undeserving objects of her regard. Even little Ginny's attachment was more commendable – she at least wanted Potter for a comprehensible reason: in order to enhance her own meagre status by finding favour with such a famous individual. The feelings I saw in Hermione's eyes burn like Potter's mind, they scald my insides yet I cannot flee them.

Yet here, beside this peaceful Albanian stream, life continues as it always has. That is the wonderful and terrible thing about nature. Its cycles spin on, unaffected – creatures scrambling for life, learning, devouring, mating, and are finally devoured themselves, what's left of them seeping down to renew the earth at the end of it all. I wonder who it was who first profited by imagining a paradise. _Lies._ Death is a feast for scavengers: maggots, worms, and crawling things. Death feeds us all up with its grim mess. Meat and compost. Yet… there is something. I hardly think it would be a paradise, but I remember _them_. In that… that terrible place… I would reach for them sometimes; try to touch them with my weak, flayed spirit. I do not know if they saw me and were indifferent or if I was simply invisible to them… and my Horcrux is in Harry Potter's hands…

_Enough!_ I have passed beyond death – I shall live forever. And Hermione shall return the cup to me. _Lord Voldemort is eternal!_

I pick up a flat pebble and skip it idly across the shallow water. Perhaps if I look, I might discover another snake occupying the hole just above the stream. I hate this place. I hate its ruthlessly ordinary creatures, unworthy of Lord Voldemort. I hate its solitude. _"Master?" _Nagini hisses from the rocks on the other side of the brook. How can I explain to a snake what it is to lose everything of humanity? To have felt the wondrous power of a wand and then been without hands, to have been the most brilliant mind of one's generation and then been forced to inhabit the meagre intelligences of animals, or else focus on nothing but existing, second by second, in formless agony. I am glad of the dearth of memory, the few recollections I have of those years are enough for a lifetime.

"_Master?"_ Nagini calls again, her green scales wet from the water as she slides around my ankles.

_What peace did I think I could find here? _I sit down with my familiar at the water's edge, rubbing my hands along her smooth, cold body as she settles herself affectionately around my shoulders. I stare at my blurred reflection in the stream: a seamless meld of man and serpent. Beyond both. Yet, for a second, I long for something else, not my old features… neither my father's looks nor those of the cadaverous predator before me. Someone young and clean of pain, whose face I cannot imagine… _Hermione wrapping her arms around Potter with a fierce joy she has never shown me… _There is an awful sound: a strangled, high-pitched scream of misery and it takes me some moments before I realise it came from my own throat. My hand strikes the face and dissolves the image, plunging into nothing but empty water. I reel backward, my bare feet slipping slightly on the smooth rocks. _I am Lord Voldemort! This place is nothing to me… love is nothing to me! _

The smallness of this world closes in upon me, pressing down as if the sky were weighted. Green light sparks involuntarily from my shaking wand, causing a flock of birds to rise from the trees in alarm. It leaves me trembling and out of breath, trying desperately to sever the threads of memory which tie me to this common stream, these rocks, and the torture of that meagre existence… and behind that… the white pain of endless death… that helpless, indifferent, broken place, peeling away at my flesh… _no!_ I AM LORD VOLDEMORT. _I have triumphed over death… I shall live forever! I am… I am… _

A small dice snake is wending its way through the grass as all thought collapses into recollection…

**L.V.H.G**

_I moved my fingers across the still warm pages of the _Sunday Prophet_, where Albus Dumbledore's death was splashed in loud type which smudged against my skin. Sometimes I still mourned the fact that another had claimed his death. I had taken the memories from Severus and the pathetic Malfoy boy – it had been so sweet to hear my old schoolmaster pleading at last. But there had been rewards and punishments to mete out and new plans to be formed and, in truth, I surprised myself with how fast the pleasure of Dumbledore's death faded from my mind; another life ended at Lord Voldemort's command. But now, seeing that bearded prune of a face in black and white, smiling ridiculously up at me over his pince-nez, I felt fresh glee at his demise. _

_This man who had never missed an opportunity to impress upon me my supposed ignorance, had been cast into the ignominy of death like all the rest – his vaunted wisdom all for naught. I laughed, crumpling the newsprint spread out before me, my nails serrating the paper – delighting in scrunching up his effigy – before smoothing it out again, leaning in close to read the article with renewed pleasure. The tone of the article was telling. It made no mention of me or my followers – or even Harry Potter. Already, the journalists were hedging their bets. With their defender dead, they knew they could no longer afford to provoke He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – how that ridiculous sobriquet amused me! _

_Nagini slid up from the floor onto my desk, doubtless seeking attention rather than demanding food, as of late she had been dining on Lucius' fine collection of peafowl. Lifting the newspaper out of her way as she coiled atop books and reports, I caressed her scales fondly with print-stained fingers. _"Worse things than death,"_ I smiled down at my dear one, my treasured companion in immortality, _"that's what he used to say, my old teacher. Such foolishness, hmmm?"_ I stroked her chin._

"Why didn't you let me kill him? Or hunt him yourself? Then your Nagini could have had a tasty wizard instead of silly little birds…"

"I doubt the old cockroach would have been as appetising as you seem to think." _I leaned back in my seat. I sat in semi darkness to suit my sensitivity, the only source of light from the fire burning low in the grate. I flicked my wand toward it, enlivening the flames, and both of us basked in the fresh breath of heat in the wake of my spell. Pushing my chair away, I stood and stretched; my blood was sluggish from being seated for so long. I drew closer, running a hand idly along the mantelpiece. Even in summer, my unique physiology meant that I much preferred to have a fire – warming charms were never as effective as an open flame. _

"I thought you said he was a wizard?"_ Snakes did not generally take well to metaphors._

"It matters not, my pet. He is nothing at all now."

**L.V.H.G**

Birdsong distantly penetrates my consciousness – the busy avian commotion which heralds dusk. Blinking, I pull the dark glasses from my face, no longer necessary in the fading light. Nagini's coils are heavy against my chest – my faithful familiar guarding me as she should. I shiver, feeling the evening chill keenly in the absence of the cosy fireside of my vision. Lost in my thoughts, I must have neglected my calmative spells. Without standing up, I put my wand to my temple, not pulling it away until my emotions are settled. I miss Hermione more than ever before – Nagini's scales slip between the present and recollection, and the Albanian twilight too, straddles time and thought.

Reaching down, I splash my face in the stream, allowing the cool water to run down my skin and over my closed eyes, rather than drying it off with my robes or with magic. The shock of the water against my flesh jolts me out the morass of memory and I reach into my pocket to grasp my wand tightly and we contract into the whirling blackness of apparition –

– The study is much as it was in my vision, except the notes and reports have been tidied away and the fire has long since gone out. I cautiously attend to the wards in order to ensure that I shall not be disturbed, before shooting a charm off toward the grate to make flames spring to life as I pull at the desk draws – all locked. Nagini slithers contentedly toward the hearth rug with an appreciative hiss. _"Open,"_ I whisper in Parseltongue. _Click-clicka-click, _the locks all spring back. Ignoring the profound sense of déjà vu, I sit down and begin to read.

There are several variations on plans for a coup d'état – lists of Ministry personnel under the Imperius Curse, and so forth – and drafts for treaties with the giants, vampires and werewolves, as well as complex rituals for the control of lesser creatures such as trolls and Dementors. More punitive arrangements are detailed for goblins, centaurs, and merfolk. There are also intriguing notes on the creative use of Inferi, an idea for using of a corpse as a husk to be inhabited and controlled by a live creature; some rather delicate alterations to the incantations involved… a quite astonishing use of the necromantic arts. It pains me to have lost so much magical knowledge. My memories do not even reach my seventh year at Hogwarts! The spells I must have created, rituals, potions…

I let the papers fall from my hands to stare hungrily at the bookshelves. Stepping quickly around the desk, I brush my fingers possessively along the spines. They seem to whisper to me, affectionate little hisses as I caress their leather bindings, and I realise I must have warded everything with Salazar's unique gift. I pull a heavy volume off the top shelf, opening it up to find only blank parchment. Yet a few words in Parseltongue and my own tidy and tightly coiled copperplate blossoms across its pages, describing various uses of unicorn blood. Let Dumbledore and Dillonsby keep their dragons!

I seize book after book from the shelves, spreading them about me on the floor, utterly engrossed in accounts of my travels in Europe, India, the Middle-East, Asia, Australasia and Africa – _all over the world!_ So much I had dreamed of seeing and doing; beautiful, wondrous spells set down hastily, some left unfinished, others constantly refined and reinvented. I greedily devour words, runes, diagrams, and drawings until my eyes ache and bright spots arc around my vision. I want to remember _this_, not those long years in Albania. If only I could peer through the forest of parchment encircling me and into the memories I cannot touch. I am immensely jealous of this Voldemort, who wandered the world and delved into the darkest secrets magic has to offer.

_How did I lose my memories? _The question has always been there, but lain dormant under so many others. I curl thoughtfully into an armchair, arrested by the mystery, holding my knees against my chest and rubbing my toes absently against the velvety upholstery. What would be gained from obliviating Lord Voldemort that could not be achieved by my death? Did someone wish to merely embarrass me… or was this a result they did not foresee? It seems unlikely. I remember it puzzling Hermione. I read no knowledge of my predicament in my servants' eyes, though they might have been concealing such thoughts. But I cannot think of a truly plausible_ reason_. I suppose it might have been some sort of accident, but that seems even less likely. Frustrated, I dig my nails into the armrests, clawing through the fabric. _"You shall remain here," _I inform my familiar as I uncoil from the chair, _"I may be gone for some hours." _

Her bulk is spooled beside the fire – half asleep. _"Yes, yes, my lord, my love… Nagini stays, Nagini sleeps…" _Her voice is soft and distant, her saffron eyes glassy. I reach down and brush a hand over her blunt nose and diamond-shaped head;_ such_ a good, loyal creature. If only the rest of those sworn to me were as unswerving in their devotion.

**L.V.H.G**

Invisible against the stars, I drift downward, buffeted by the salty wind off the sea. My robes are warm with magic, but I miss the fireside. From this altitude, there are no lights visible in the small cottage. But, as I spiral lower, a flash of wandlight catches my eye, shining up from the dark rocks revealed by the tide's ebb; two tiny shadows at the base of the chalky cliff. I dive through the air, dissolving into mist instead of striking the sea, pure spirit atop the roiling waves as only a sorcerer such as I can be, gliding within earshot of the two figures illuminated in the moonlight.

"I… I think I've twisted my ankle." Hermione chokes as she sits down. Hearing her voice, even when uttering such a banal statement, brings me unexpected pleasure. Yet she does not attend to her injury sensibly, but is staring wide-eyed at the boy whose right hand is in a sling, but in whose left is clutched a small, golden cup. The first time I have glimpsed it and it is held in Potter's sweaty grip, his dirty, awful fingers touching Lord Voldemort's precious soul. I shudder as if those fingers were on my very skin, restraining myself from killing him as my left hand threatens to materialise – wand extended. Harry Potter twitches and reaches up to touch his forehead with the back of his wrist – a vane for my anger. With extreme effort, I still my thoughts, simply observing. _This is not about Potter_. This is between Hermione and me, with my soul a test of her loyalty. I honoured her by giving her a chance to retrieve my Horcrux without bloodshed when I could have simply taken it from her foolish companions by force. Now it is _her_ turn to honour me by betraying them and returning my treasure to me.

"I broke it," Potter mumbles, staring at the ground. "I broke _the Sword of Gryffindor_… Dumbledore left it to me and… _I broke it…" _The old man left Potter…? _Shining, silvery steel drives through my soul, shattering me twice against the void, ripping away everything except the pain… _I lose concentration and nearly cry out as I find myself immersed in memory and achingly freezing waves which spin me toward the rocks, corporeal, with my wet robes swirling about my legs and my mouth full of salt water. I kick against the sea through a tangle of silk. When once such a lapse in concentration would have mean dissolution – madness – now it means I regain my physicality. Potter swipes his forehead again and, with effort, I slip back into nothingness, not wanting to be discovered.

"_Harry,"_ Hermione's tone is impatient with pain and irritation, "you can't _possibly_ have destroyed a blade made of Goblin silver – it's nearly indestructible. It only takes in that which makes it stronger." Of course, the blade must be impregnated with Basilisk venom after it killed Slytherin's beautiful beast: _my_ Basilisk. _How on earth did Potter manage to break a Goblin-made sword? Fiendfyre? _No, the pieces are strewn across the rocks, glittering in the darkness.

"But Vol – _he _could have cursed the cup or something!" Even his _voice_ grates against me, thin and brittle.

"If he had, the sword would have gained the power of whatever hex he placed on it – it wouldn't have shattered. Whoever gave you that sword was trying to trick you. Either that or they'd been tricked themselves. Who sent that Patronus?"

"I don't know… she seemed so familiar… it wasn't a trick, I _know_ it wasn't – I just – I don't… I don't know who it could have–" Potter breaks off to stare suspiciously at my Hermione. "_You followed me._ You were going to _steal _it, _weren't you!-?"_

"_I was not!"_ Hermione squeaks indignantly, her bushy hair falling out of its messy plait. If I had a mouth, I would smile. "I saw you follow it off the edge of the cliff – _Harry_, I… I thought… I thought you'd _d-died!" _She begins to cry, clearly overwhelmed by the pain of her injury. My amusement dies, frozen as she limps over to him. To hear _those words_, _that tone_, given to Potter who deserves nothing but death!

He carefully tucks my Horcrux into his pocket with one hand and approaches her, his voice quiet, barely audible. "Hermione…" he begins awkwardly, angrily.

"He didn't do anything to me! He… he made me swear a vow to help him – and I agreed because I wanted to gain his trust. I'm not a traitor, I swear! Harry, you're my _best friend_, you have to believe me. I wouldn't lie to you… please!" The words tumble through her tears and I long to kill him and make her suffer until she forgets she ever knew a boy named Harry Potter, unworthy of her in every way_. "Oh, Harry!"_ They are embracing.

Against all reason their arms cling to each other, forgetting the sword and forgetting my Horcrux, when by rights he should repudiate her for her allegiance to me and she should spurn his attentions out of reverence for her master! _Is her ignorance of Occlumency merely a ruse? Have I performed another gross miscalculation? _Yet these thoughts are a mere backdrop to the rage heightening within me as I watch _Harry Potter _once more embracing what is _mine_. Her willingness, her relief, and _her joy_, are luminous under the moonlight and, were it not for the bespelled calm fogging my thoughts to prevent a seizure, I would be drowned and they would both be dead by my wand in those few seconds before the onset.

Potter grunts, clutching his forehead, and Hermione yelps, both of them stumbling back against the rocks. But Potter cannot see through eyes that do not exist, nor read the thoughts of a mere spirit. My ability to render myself less than shadow, scattering my essence on the breeze – bought so very dearly – saves me from discovery. "He's angry," Potter mutters, "really, _really_ angry…"

"I should be there, he might be killing people… oh Merlin!" Hermione viciously wipes her eyes, almost swatting away her tears, and I feel a fresh stab of betrayal that she should be so concerned for the pitiful creatures who might have earned my ire, rather than the lord she professes to care for.

"He's a _murderer_, Hermione. It's what he _does!_"

She sits back down against a rock and I find myself drifting closer, wanting to observe her expression: her dark eyes tired and pensive. "It's complicated. He lost his memory and that… well, it gave him a chance. He's felt remorse, though I don't think he understands guilt. And no one's ever tried to _teach_ him, Harry. Oh, Professor Dumbledore _told _him what love was – but it's not enough. I couldn't _explain_ love to You-Know-Who any more than I could explain freedom to Winky! In order to teach someone to love you have to _show_ it to them." She takes a deep breath. "He's not a monster, truly, he isn't. He's just a very lost, damaged person."

I do not know to take her words, though I have seen as much in her mind. Her presumption would irritate me were it not my strongest weapon against her. Harry Potter is shaking his head, his face fighting a humourless, incredulous smile. "And that's what… you've been doing? Showing _the Dark Lord _how to love?"

Hermione nods, "Yes, I suppose… yes."

Potter's mouth is open like a dull fish and he stares at Hermione as though she were a creature from another planet. "And you say…" he mumbles distantly, "… _I_ have a... a _saving-people thing…?"_ He blinks and his expression hardens, losing its shock. He grips Hermione's shoulder tightly, protectively. "Look, I_ know_ Riddle. I've watched memories of him as a kid, I killed the diary Horcrux – I can see into his mind! He's lying to you like he lied to Ginny. It's _not possible_ for him, Hermione, he _can't_ feel those things. Dumbledore always said–"

"DUMBLEDORE WAS WRONG!" Hermione shouts, half hysterical. "_He never tried!_ He never gave Tom Riddle any help! Did he ever bother think there could be _a reason_ for a little boy to steal all those things off the other children? Did he think that maybe a child afraid of being carted off the asylum actually needed _psychological help?_ That a normal eleven year-old shouldn't go to Diagon Alley by himself? What did Professor Dumbledore do when confronted by an obviously troubled and unstable boy? _He set his wardrobe on fire. _Genius. And what about _you_, Harry? Did he ever _bother_ to find out what your life was like with your aunt and uncle after leaving you with them? We had to owl you _food packages!_ He only sent a letter when it looked like your uncle was going to throw you out!" She sighs, drained of indignation, "He was a great wizard, Harry, and I _really _miss him… but he wasn't infallible… and I don't think he knew nearly as much about Tom Riddle as he thought he did–"

"_Hermione–"_

"No! _This is important!_ I know what happens to those pieces of his soul after they're destroyed. It's _awful_, Harry. They get stuck between life and death, they can't move on – they're trapped somehow – and they're in pain, _forever!_ _No one_ deserves that, not even _him_!"

Potter looks away from her, out across the water, staring unknowingly at me. "Hermione, he _has_ to die. If I thought it might be possible to… I-I don't know… lock him up somewhere, then yeah. But he's too powerful." The green eyes gaze past me into the darkness of sea and sky. "I don't _want_ to kill him – I don't _want_ to kill_ anyone_... but _someone_ has to and the prophecy says that person has to be me." How dare this boy think himself capable of defeating _Lord Voldemort!-? _It was his filthy muggle_ mother_ who lost me my body, not her worthless child! I doubt she even knew what she was doing_ – an accident!_ "Honestly, I feel sorry for him too. But he's got to be stopped and to do that we have to get rid of his Horcruxes and then get rid of him_." __I've seen the real you. You're nothing! You're ugly! You're foul… And I feel sorry for you…__! _Potter turns back to Hermione. "Where is this _going_, Hermione? _Are you just dropping your knickers and hoping for the best?-!" _

My beautiful one's face darkens, a deep flush colouring her face. Because – for once – Potter is quite correct: that is _exactly_ what Hermione has been doing. Rather deliciously so, in fact. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then bows her head, bushy hair falling across her eyes.

"You really _don't_ have a plan, do you? Oh, Hermione – _Merlin_ – Ron's right. You're _not _going back. I've… I've been in his head – when he's thinking about you – you can't help him, Hermione. No one can." Potter's voice is quiet now, as tired as an old man, oddly tender, and so different from his sharp words of a moment ago. Hermione slowly shakes her head. He sighs. "Look, let's go back inside, all right? How's your ankle?" Potter bends down.

Hermione quickly moves her left foot clumsily away and stands up, hopping. "No, it's all right – I – no_, really_…!" My left hand solidifies from smoke to flesh and I flick off a silent healing charm at Hermione's ankle – somewhat surprised that she hasn't tended to it already with her usual practicality – before letting my fingers dissolve back into nothing.

"Oh… t-there… it's fine now – it mustn't have b-been as hurt as I'd thought…" She talks a few surprised steps, and sends a wary glance into the night, perhaps suspecting my presence. I curl back up into the air as they carefully gather the pieces of the broken sword and prepare to make their way up the steep path up the cliff. Why Hermione does not simply disapparate with Potter baffles me. She can perform the spell well enough. Yet they climb the chalky steps slowly together, clinging to one another in the spray of the incoming tide

I reach the windswept flower beds long before the two of them. The door is unlocked and the floorboards of the cottage are cold and gritty with sand against my bare feet. A pale mobile is swaying in the open doorway: the detritus of the sea and the plucked feathers of gulls. The hall is full of family keepsakes and photographs, records of holidays past. And in the sitting-room there is a sprawl of makeshift bedding. Two couches, one of them empty – presumably Potter's – and on the other… on the other is a sleeping boy. Potter's friend and Hermione's prospective lover; hair bright and freckled skin faintly blue in the moonlight, one arm loosely resting against his cheek, lids peacefully closed. Just lying there, offered like a red apple waiting for me to reach over and pluck.

A rush of righteous excitement courses through me and my wand arm tingles, ready – _oh so ready_ – to feel the beauty of that perfect curse which will end Ronald Weasley. He deserves it, this unworthy creature, this foolish child who would dare touch what is mine. And she and Potter deserve it too, to walk together into this quiet cottage thinking their companion is but asleep. _Yessss… _I promised her Potter's life, she did not ask for Weasley's… _It would be so easy…_

I bend over his sleeping form, my face close to his, taking in his features, extending my tongue to taste his scent in the air between us, the tip of my wand hovering over his heart... _Imagine feeling that much grief when you saw anyone die whose death you could have prevented. That's what normal people feel... what __I __feel… _Hermione's words come to me, irritating and unwelcome. I cannot kill him, not yet… it's too soon for that. Potter would use it against me; it would spoil the lull of Hermione's thoughts. _He's lying to you like he lied to Ginny. It's not possible for him, Hermione. He can't feel those things._

My teeth grind together and Weasley stirs, his eyelashes quivering. My wrist twitches and his sleep becomes as deep as can be. I move closer, close enough to whisper in the boy's ear. There's some perverse enjoyment in this intimacy between us – it's an honour for him, an honour he does not deserve, but for the unfortunate choice of friends which brought him to Lord Voldemort's attention. Pages of spell notes fan across my mind and I smile. Killing Weasley would be a mistake, but there are other options. Intricate, terrible, ways to destroy a person from the inside out, slowly… so slow one might never notice until such decay had realised its final and irreversible effect. Whetting my lips, I begin to softly incant as my wand traces delicately, _lovingly_, across the boy's chest…

**L.V.H.G**

_Harry's right. _I turn over, leaning an elbow on my pillow and pushing my hair out of my eyes. I haven't got a plan – not even the semblance of one. What happens when Voldemort comes for his Horcrux, or even when he reunites with that Horcrux and regains its memories? He's_ never _going to be sane. In fact, I think he's only going to get _worse_ if we continue with the Horcruxes – just as the locket seems to plan. _And why would anyone give Harry a fake sword? Did they find this place the way Ron suggested I did, with a House Elf? _I don't know what to do… what to think… I really wish I were back at Hogwarts, that these weeks with Voldemort were a mistake, a hiccup in the universe, and I'll wake up in my dormitory and go down to breakfast and nag the boys about studying for their N.E.W.T.s. At Hogwarts, it always seemed that if I researched the library for long enough, I could eventually come up with an answer for anything.

But everything has changed – now I don't have any solutions. Not for the sword, not for the cup, and certainly not for Lord Voldemort. Biting my lip in frustration, I point my wand at the empty jar beside the bed and a bluebell flame springs up, illuminating the bedroom, casting flickering shadows up against the ceiling. Reaching into the bag on the bedside table, I pull out a notebook and a Self-Inking quill I'd bought from Fred and George's shop last year, and began noting down my thoughts. _Let's start with the sword and work up to the massive problem that is Voldemort:_

Everyone knew the Sword of Gryffindor was on display in Dumbledore's office and had been since Harry pulled it from the Sorting Hat in second year. Professor Dumbledore had left it to Harry, but the Board of Governors vetoed his bequest because they saw the sword as the property of the school. The now obvious reason – I can't believe I didn't realise before – that the professor left it to Harry was because it was impregnated with Basilisk venom. That means that someone… someone _apart from us_ knows about the Horcruxes and wants Harry to destroy them using the sword. Who knew? Professor Slughorn? Had he realised what Harry was doing and asked a Hogwarts House-Elf to take him to Harry? Only, why had he used his Patronus as an intermediary instead of giving it to Harry himself? If Professor Slughorn were going to help Harry, he would want the credit. He would want Harry to remember_ him_ as the one who gave him the sword. The use of the doe Patronus meant that whoever it was wanted to keep their identity secret.

W_ho else knew about the Horcruxes and wouldn't want to be identified, would just leave a sword in a rock-pool? _Perhaps someone on the inside who knew Harry wouldn't trust them? Lucius Malfoy? He would have access to Hogwarts now that Snape was headmaster and he could have worked out that Voldemort had more than one Horcrux after what happened at Gringotts… and he had a motive too, after Voldemort threatened to murder him and his wife if Draco failed to kill Professor Dumbledore. After the Order managed to escape Malfoy Manor with Dobby, maybe he gained more respect for House-Elf magic? And with Voldemort absent, there was a chance to get away with it without Voldemort seeing the truth in his eyes with Legilimency.

Only… there's no proof of anything. Right now I have nothing but speculation. And the sword shattered – which meant that someone _else_ had probably gotten to it first; a witch or wizard powerful enough to make a copy which could fool the Board of Governors _and_ the person who brought the fake to Harry. That's a point… the person with the patronus might not necessarily have known about the Horcruxes at all, just Dumbledore's will – it could have simply been a way to give Harry support as the Chosen One, to remind him of Gryffindor's legacy. But _who_ took the real sword and when did they steal it from the Headmaster's Office?

My stomach suddenly clenches and I drop the quill. _I _had stolen from the Headmaster's Office!Just after Dumbledore's funeral and… and the window… the window had been already _open _when the books flew out. I had seen it from the Gryffindor girls' dormitory. It might be nothing or it might be everything. But if someone had _planned_ to steal the sword from Dumbledore's office, then the funeral would have been the perfect time. Everyone who might have had access to that office had been down beside the lake attending the funeral. The whole school had been empty. I don't know why it didn't occur to me before: if no one was in the office when I removed the Horcrux books – and presumably if anyone had been they would have tried to stop the books from flying out the window – then _why had the window been open?_ But if _someone_ had been in the office – someone who wasn't supposed to be there and didn't know the password – then they would have _had_ to get in through the window. They… they might even have been in there when I summoned the books!

I rub my tired eyes. I could easily be wrong, the room could have just been being aired or something… It could have been Dumbledore himself who made the fake sword and hid the real one somewhere for Harry to find… _Oh, I don't know!_

_Tap, tap, tap! _I startle at the sound of nails against my _own_ window, levelling my wand toward the noise. _Tap, tap, tap! _"Who's there?" I call shrilly, trying to see into the darkness beyond, my night-eyes ruined by the blue flames. The tapping continues. I slowly get out of bed, still pointing my wand at the window.

_Hermione… _a faint whisper, almost inaudible over the wind and the surf. _Hermione… _high-pitched and cold, the small voice accompanying the tapping frightens me even more.

_What is he doing here? _I tip-toe over toward the glass – trying to avoid sounding the creaky floorboards which might wake Bill and Fleur in the next room – and cautiously undo the window latch. As soon as the pane is ajar, _something_ pours into the room like silken smoke. It moves like liquid dye, ghosting outward on swirling darkness, staining the colours of the room with its awful presence and dimming the bluebell flames, despite the jar protecting them. A horrible, faceless tangle reeking of ozone and Dark Arts: formless, naked magic clotting the small room like dense fog.

_Hermione… _It's then that I realise that it doesn't have a voice at all, that it's calling to my mind without bothering with my ears. It scares me, perhaps more than he ever has before, because_ this_ isn't even vaguely humanoid. It's a ghastly, amorphous cross between a Lethifold and a Dementor, augmented with the terrifying aura of Dark magic beyond anything I've ever felt. What I'm looking at shouldn't exist. I draw back, pure instinct overriding anything else, needing to put distance between myself and this _unnatural_ _thing_ which floats on the air like oil on water. Professor Snape's description of the Dark Arts drifts into my head as I stare: _you are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible… _

_Hermione? _It calls again, affectionately, long fingers coalescing from black smoke, stretching out, misty palms upturned in an offer of embrace.

But I can't seem to move, even as it seeps closer and closer. The voice is more demanding now, and as the ghostly fingers lift my chin, my eyes meet the smudged, smoky outline of Voldemort's gaunt, skeletal face in the inky darkness, red light flickering around the hollow sockets. I felt this restless, entropic touch before, but he had been under a strong Disillusionment Charm, and nowhere near this far gone, and I had been too distracted by our flight. Is _this_ Voldemort's true form? The ghostly fingers slide up into my hair which moves in response to their touch, as though I were underwater, and the sole of my left foot is buzzing. _Are you not pleased to see me, Hermione? _

"Why are you like this?" I whisper. No wonder the Dementors joined him. Perhaps this was how he communicatedwith them?

_Your friend cannot see through eyes that are not eyes, nor spy upon thoughts which rely upon no mind to contain them._

"But… but… _how?"_

The darkness laughs, cold and high, flooding my mind like an ice cream headache. It reddens my vision, spiking the shadows with blood. _Magic, my sweet little Muggle-born; magic beyond those careful boundaries and strictures you prize! There are no rules in magic – I know that now – only power and the will to use it. Gamp, Waffling – it is all meaningless before the power of Lord Voldemort!_

My back hits a shelf and I realise I've been in retreat this entire time, not wanting the awful Dark magic to touch me more than necessary, feeling as though it would stick to me like boiling tar. "You're _wrong_…" I tell Voldemort quietly. "What about the First Fundamental Law? What do you call spending years as less than a ghost or being trapped in torture for eternity if _not consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind?_" Voldemort lets out an audible hiss of displeasure, losing a little of his black aura, and I know I'm getting somewhere. "Can't you block Harry out with Occlumency the same way he can close his mind against you? Surely if you're so powerful, you can do that?" It must be exhausting to have to deal with rampant egotism and paranoia at the same time. I tentatively reach out a hand to touch the insubstantial, blackly billowing smoke, which seems to curl possessively around my arm as I extend it. My skin feels fuzzy with static.

But as I do so, the shadow pales into pearly skin, the dark corona smoothing out into elegant black robes and Lord Voldemort emerges, his red eyes glaring furiously at me for implying that he is less powerful than Harry – reminding me ludicrously of Crookshanks' reaction to the perceived indignity of flea powder. Actually, there's even a slight physical resemblance in their feline eyes, sulky, thin mouths, and squashed, flat faces… "You _dare_ suggest to me that Lord Voldemort is–"

"I missed you," I tell him at once, quickly casting a Muffling Charm so no one will hear us talking, and distracting him from his tirade by putting my arms around his thin waist, burying my face in his robes so he cannot look into my eyes and realise just how selective that statement is. I've become weirdly fond of his pompous habit of referring to himself in the third person; Tom Riddle's obsessive need to reinforce his chosen identity, especially notable when he's feeling insecure. His long hands settle tenderly against the back of my head, holding me to him. Voldemort sighs against me, a small, intimate exhalation of relief and pleasure. _This_ is what I missed, this physical connection, the tall, graceful body, the smooth feeling of those silky robes against my skin and his brilliant magic, not warped and overblown like that grotesque and shadowy distortion, but a comforting, almost electrical hum. Harry's wrong - he _can_ be helped. Every moment like this is a triumph. "But what are you _doing_ here? You told me I had three days_. _Harry said you were angry._ Have you been watching me the entire time? What hap-?__"_

He cuts me off. "No… I have been far away from here… but longed for you…" Voldemort's high voice is uncharacteristically tender. He lowers his head so that his flat face is against my neck and inhales deeply. "_My_ Hermione…" The spidery hands fasten around me and lift me onto the bed. It's only a narrow single frame, but Voldemort's emaciated form fits easily beside me. His pale smile is full of crooked delight and the scarlet eyes shine warmly. He leans close and his mouth meets mine.

We share long, lingering kisses that I can't find it within myself to deny. It feels to_ right_ to have him beside me, our arms wrapped around each other, while he hisses sibilant compliments between my lips. But my pulse is racing, terrified of someone hearing us, of the danger of Voldemort being here when I want him as far away from my friends as possible. When his large hands move under my pyjama top, I push them away. "We're_ not_ doing anything here!" I tell him through clenched teeth.

He raises his hairless brow but doesn't reply. The curved, milky nail of his index finger slides down my cheek and along my jaw. The amusement vanishes from his mask-like face and his tone is once more glacial, his nail now tracing my lower lip. "You have _no intention_ of fulfilling your promise, do you?" My stomach drops and I realise belatedly that I've been staring into his red eyes for _ages_.

"O-of course I do… I'm trying to persuade Harry–"

"And does your precious Potter agree that he should simply _give_ it to you?"

"Well, no – n-not yet, but I'm sure he'll–"

"_Do not lie to Lord Voldemort! You know you must take it from him and yet you resist." _The sharp claws clutch my cheek painfully tight.

"He's my _friend!_" I realise my voice is getting too loud, even with a charm on the room. "I can't just betray my friend without… without trying to _convince _him–"

"You are an intelligent girl, Hermione. You know he will never give you my Horcrux and you knew it before you came here. Because of the affection which I have for you, I decided to be merciful and give you a chance to steal it without hurting any of your former companions. It seems I was mistaken."

"_Merciful?"_ I echo slowly. Voldemort doesn't know the meaning of the word. And then I realise why he's come early and why he didn't just take the Horcrux himself. It was never about allowing me to time to peacefully acquire the Horcrux. "Mercy and affection don't come into it. You just want me to b-betray them more than I already have! _Oh Merlin, that's it, isn't it?_ You want to kill two birds with one stone – regain your Horcrux and turn my friends against me." Voldemort lifts his chin, livid eyes glittering dangerously, as if daring me to continue. Crushing disappointment is crumpling up my insides. After everything, I'd somehow convinced myself that Voldemort was actually_ trying_ to keep the promise he made me, that he was giving this a _real chance_. Harry was right.

"This is your final word?" he answers stiffly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth tight as we stare into each other's eyes, only inches apart on the pillow.

"_Of course it isn't!"_ I hiss at him, trying to keep my voice down. _"You promised you would try and understand – to accept that I care about other people! You promised me!"_

"He has my soul." Voldemort's voice is dull, his slit pupils retracted to almost nothing in his frighteningly blank gaze. He stands up, pacing the room, the long, white fingers of his left hand twitching. _"He has my soul. _I would happily subject him to days of torture before an equally exquisite death, for destroying one of my Horcruxes and for _daring_ to lay his _filthy hands_ on another precious piece of Lord Voldemort's spirit. I will not break my vow to give you his life..." His breathing is shallow and his nostril slits flare as he looms over me. "But I want him realise that he has been _betrayed_, I want to_ taste _his pain; I want him to _know_ himself abandoned by his friend. And you _are_ going to do it, Hermione, _willingly."_

"No!" I'm not going to betray Harry. I _won't _betray Harry. "I don't know why I agreed to your horrible demand in the first place!"

Voldemort stares at me blankly; the same terrible empty face he wore when I told him about the Amortentia his mother brewed. The livid, crimson light vanishes for a moment as he shuts his eyes. But when they snap open, a strange leering smile is dancing around the corners of his mouth, and the red stare is oddly vacant. _"No?"_ his voice, when he finally speaks, is like the rustle of silk. He tilts his head to the side as ugly, twisted delight stretches across his gaunt features and his eyes glitter evilly. His right hand fastens around my arm like a vice and yanks me off the bed, pulling me tight against him. Then his tongue is almost touching my ear, full of mad, childlike excitement: "I think we shall see what_ your_ _friends _think of your choice, Hermione…!"

I cry out as he disarms me without a word and my body seems to become weak and clumsy, his magic slowing the signals between my brain and my muscles. The bedroom door is blasted off its hinges, disintegrating before it hits the wall, and I can hear Bill and Fleur's shocked voices in the next room. I try to tell him no again, tell him I'll do it – tell him _anything_ – but I can't speak as he drags me into the hallway, his deadly magic filling the narrow space, his bare feet leaving the ground.

We literally _fly_ down the stairs and I realise that the reason I can't speak is because I'm _screaming._ Harry is on his feet, in his singlet with his hair a-tangle and his glasses lopsided, standing on top of his sleeping bag, holding Bellatrix Lestrange's wand awkwardly in his left hand, levelled at Voldemort. Ron is beside him, biting his lips through the fear, but holding Draco's wand steady. _No, no, no! _Voldemort disarms them both as easily as he disarmed me, But Harry manages to lunge for his and snatch it back from the air, while Draco's wand rolls across the floor on the other side of the room. _"Give me what is mine and you all shall live_." Bill, Fleur, Remus and Tonks appear at the top of the stairs. Harry wordlessly shakes his head, Bellatrix's wand still aimed at Voldemort, his green eyes utterly determined. _"Give me what is mine or I will kill your friends."_

Just like at the Ministry, except we _are_ the Order of the Phoenix and there's no Professor Dumbledore to save us.

_Next Chapter: Can Hermione save the Order of the Phoenix from Voldemort? Will they survive such badly broken promises? And we are introduced to Hufflepuff's Cup, which displays a slightly different attitude to Slytherin's Locket._


	21. The Wandmaker

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer:**I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes:** Well, I've finished my thesis and am able to work on this story again! Hurrah! Just a quick note, please, before you send me messages asking me to update, check my profile. Normally, it's great to have people hassling me to update, but I really couldn't work on my fanfiction when my thesis was due. It will say on my profile whether there is a significant reason why I'm not updating (I hate posting author's note chapters since the disappointment slays me when my favourite authors do it and I get an alert for just a note!). For those of you up on Pottermore wandlore, White Poplar (as far as I can tell) is somewhere between Poplar and Aspen – so think of it as a cross between the two wood types. It's also the tree of the September Equinox and has some other interesting symbolism you can find for yourselves if so inclined. Spending time with the Celtic tree calendar and Greek mythology is fun.

**Chapter Twenty-One: The Wandmaker**

Terror hangs thickly over the room and I revel in it, inhaling its acrid scent. Hatred too, naturally, but it's impossible for them to bury their fear of Lord Voldemort even in loathing; they are stilled, wild-eyed and tense, like rabbits, clutching their wands before them like muggle crucifixes, as if their pitiful abilities could protect them. I see that same horrified disbelief I remember in Lily Potter's green eyes as I bring them up short with their own mortality and those of their friends – see myself in their imaginations: impossibly tall and bloodless but for my sanguine eyes, and bathed in a green corona of death; a serpent-creature out of nightmare reflected back at me through the myriad facets of their minds. Part of me is longing to abandon everything and bring them all down this very moment. Hermione is quivering at my side and through her arm I can feel her pulse beating rapidly like the wings of a trapped bird. My fingers squeeze tight, impressing my will into her – the feel of her rushing blood even more pronounced – before letting go and shoving her roughly toward Potter. "You shall hand it to her," I declare, watching them all, ready to attack if any of them moves unnecessarily. Six against one and not one brave soul dares move. There's a savage pleasure in watching Hermione stumble forwards, but at the same time I feel as though I should pull her back and prevent her from taking even those few steps toward Potter, that allowing her any closer to her schoolfellows is too much.

Hermione stands between us. Harry Potter is not looking at her, but at me, his face contorted in pain, his teeth grinding. "Harry…" she pleads, "Harry, _please…_"

"Ron," Potter glances across at his companion before nodding resignedly towards the pocket of his pyjamas, keeping his wand angled at me, while Weasley reaches in and reluctantly draws out the small golden cup and I fight the urge to wince as his undeserving, filthy fingers press against my precious soul. I can feel fury shooting up the nape of my neck, ready to engulf me if I only let it. Hermione holds her hand out to take the cup and whispers something I cannot catch to Weasley. Breath becomes a labour as I forcibly combat the impulse to kill them both before her eyes. It would be so _simple… no, no… I cannot… not yet._

Weasley is wandless, green about the face, and trembling, but his blue eyes are fierce with purpose as he holds Hufflepuff's Cup just short of Hermione's grasp. It's laughable – both of them are! As if they were knights facing a dragon instead of worthless schoolboys in their night-clothes. Once again I have the sharp urge to end this now, to squash them like the cockroaches they are, and it is truly _painful _to resist when my whole body is _thrumming_ with the expectant euphoria of Dark magic. "If we give you the Horcrux, Hermione stays with us." The voice is tense but still strong, a wire stretched taut.

I cannot help the smile that comes to my lips in secret knowledge of this impudent boy's fate. "I hardly think – Ronald – that you are in any position to dictate terms to Lord Voldemort." I laugh at his amusingly pugnacious expression and the flinch that accompanies my name, as I roll my wand deliberately between the fingers of my left hand and return my gaze to Hermione, whose upturned palm is shaking.

"O-oh, yeah?" Suddenly, the cup is lobbed high. It sails over Hermione's head like a golden snitch and I instinctively break my concentration to catch it as it falls toward me.

"Ron – _no!_" a voice calls out and, as my fingers close triumphantly around my Horcrux, I glimpse the red-head fling black powder into the air and everything goes dark.

**L.V.H.G**

Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder fills the cottage, making me cough and splutter as I stumble against a couch, unable to see. I know from Ginny that ordinary spells won't penetrate the darkness – we have to find our way out. A warm hand fumbles at my shoulder, pulling me back, and I yelp as I collide with someone in the pitch black, both of us falling over, tripping over what might be a chair, sending it crashing to the floor. I can hear footsteps, yelling and banging as people knock into furniture and each other. A high-pitched shriek of pure fury drowns out everything else and my left foot is on fire. _"Hermione,"_ Harry hisses, yanking my arm, _"come on!"_ It feels like layers of skin are being peeled off my left sole, carving it up with a knife, the pain _tugging _me across the room like a magnet.

"_No!"_ I struggle against my friends, "I _can't–!_" I try to roll away from them across the floor, "You have to – Voldemort!" All of a sudden there's a loud _crack _from outside, the murmur of excited voices, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. _Oh Merlin, they've renewed the Taboo ritual. _"_Disapparate! _Leave me! RUN!" I cry, fighting harder against Ron and Harry's attempts to pull me away. Green light forks through the blackness like lightning. Harry is yelling something and Ron drags me forward as I try to push him off. Spells roar and crackle in the darkness, and it's Ron who is pulled away, his fingers ripped off me by Bill, just as blinding fire pierces the darkness, consuming the powder along with the oxygen.

Fiendfyre turns Voldemort's bleached skin golden, surrounding him like billowing, wild-burning wings which twist and spit like a nest of serpents. He looks like a demon king in swirling black robes; his glowing eyes alight with crimson rage. I scramble away from my friends and dive behind a couch, slipping on a pencil-like something. A picture frame shatters above my head. Glass flies everywhere and – desperately trying to get out of the way – I see Draco Malfoy's wand from the floor between my feet. I snatch up the wand and, struggling with the _wrongness_ of it in my hand, summon my own wand from upstairs. Lupin, Fleur, Bill and Tonks are holding off the Snatchers, spells zinging between them whilst Voldemort, impossibly fleet-footed, raises his wand at Ron and the room is lit with blinding green light.

I forget to breathe as the perfectly aimed Avada Kedavra rushes to claim my courageous, helpless friend, just as my vine wood wand flies down the stairs toward me. The two meet mid-air and there is a horrible splintering explosion as it is blown to pieces by Voldemort's curse, filling the air with the scent of burnt dragon's blood, giving Ron time to take cover behind a table. The Dark Lord screams again in thwarted fury. His voice is like a Banshee: a deathly, inhuman cry. The vicious serpent-winged flames feed on his anger, growing ever higher until the ceiling begins to burn. He pivots gracefully and extends his arms toward the Order, Fiendfyre rushing forward to do his bidding. "NO!" I aim at the ceiling with Malfoy's wand, between the Order and Voldemort, and yell _"Confringo!" _with all my might. White plaster explodes between them, debris consumed by the roaring Fiendfyre – all the time Tonks, Fleur and Lupin need to disapparate everyone as Snatchers pour into the room.

The Snatchers' eyes are comically wide and they scatter before the whirling tendrils of cursed Medusan fire which curl furiously around Voldemort, who flies forward, clawing the empty air. Our eyes lock and he lets out a dangerous hiss, not even bothering to glance at the Snatchers backing cautiously away behind him, bowing low. The flames vanish and the Dark Lord stands in the centre of the cottage, his sharp shoulders still shuddering in fury. Those gleaming feline eyes stare for what feels like forever and I meet them defiantly, tears stinging my face, not caring what he sees. Eventually, he simply holds out an imperious, long-fingered hand to me and – too tired and numb for anything else – I obediently walk over and put my hand in his and we twist into the contracting darkness of apparition –

–To be spat out in a book-lined study, lit only by low-burning embers. Nagini is sleeping on the hearth-rug like a monstrous dog. My Dark Mark is still aching, but not as much as my heart. _It's only a wand, _I tell myself, _what's important is that everyone got away, that nobody died – it saved Ron's life!_ I could not be more proud of my vine wood wand and I hate the wand in my hand, awkward and foreign – still reeking of Draco Malfoy's magic. Angry, I chuck it on the floor, and it bounces near the snake lying curled on the rug. Nagini lifts her head drowsily and tastes the air.

I refuse to speak to Voldemort, even to ask where we are. I feel hopeless, naïve – I've trapped myself with a monster – _stupid _enough to believe his promises – this murderer who killed Mad-Eye Moody and almost killed Ron just now – who would have incinerated the entire cottage like he murdered the Goblins at the bank. And _Ron_… I can't believe he was the one who found the way to get everyone out of there alive_._ _It was so brave._ My only consolation is that the Order is safe, but even then it's only temporary. Voldemort can find them any time he likes.

The Dark Lord isn't looking at me but the finely-wrought golden cup he places carefully on a desk, facing away, his tall, thin frame bending over the Horcrux, stroking its golden rim with his spidery fingers, murmuring Parseltongue under his breath. _I could stun him right now, _the thought drifts into my head, _he isn't looking… _But I can't kill him, no one can, and tying him up wouldn't do anything to stop him. Even as I think about it, a subtle flicker of light licks around my wrist, reminding me of my vow. _Oh Merlin, it's hopeless…_

The hissing has stopped, Voldemort straightens his back, but he still doesn't turn around, his hands clenching the back of the chair in front of him. I can hear his level breathing and, in the silence, the sound almost drowns me. "I am not an evil creature insensible of virtue..." he whispers finally, releasing the chair. I can see where his milky claws have cut through the dark velvet upholstery. "I always value bravery, intelligence… _loyalty_ – and it is these things that draw me to you far more than your beauty – which is considerable – but common enough in its way." He glides toward me and I remain rooted to the spot as that immense aura of frighteningly dark magic washes over me and I find myself wishing I hadn't chucked Malfoy's wand on the floor as Voldemort nudges it disinterestedly aside with a bare toe.

It's impossible to predict which way his mood will swing next and his red eyes are lit with madness. Skeletal fingers gently find the bone just beneath my ears and caress my jaw, stopping just short of cupping my face, his tone just as delicate as his movements. "Such devotion… such faithfulness… and _so wasted on your wretched, worthless friends!" _Spittle flecks my face and my ears ring as he screams down at me, his serpentine features contorted in rage.

"How would_ you_ know?-!"I yell right back at him, beyond angry now, struggling to shake off his hold. "Who are _you _to judge _my_ _friends?-! You wouldn't know friendship from a - a Blast-Ended Skrewt!" _

"_Don't be childish!"_ Voldemort spits, his temper dissolving his controlled, human speech into icy, breathless sibilants, gripping my already bruised skin painfully tight. "_Of coursse_ I know what _friendship isss_, I–" He pauses, blinking down at me in irritation, "A blast-ended _what?"_

"_EXACTLY!_ AND, AS FOR CHILDISH BEHAVIOUR, I'VE NEVER MET SOMEONE SO IMMATURE AND HYPOCRITICAL IN MY LIFE–!"

"YOU _DARE!_" The tip of the yew wand presses hard into my cheek, raw magic licking my skin with white heat and I scream in pain. _"You dare…?" _He repeats quietly and, as the agony intensifies, tearing viciously through my nerves, he begins to laugh – humourless and insane – a broken, terrifying sound_._ The crimson eyes glaze over and Voldemort sways, like a reed buffeted by a strong wind, and for a moment I think he's going to have a seizure._ "Hermione…"_ my name is a high-pitched, strangled whimper – as though _he_ were the one being tortured, choking on his own awful laughter. Long fingers pull me close, my senses spinning, and his smooth, cold face presses against my neck and shoulder. Voldemort clings to me like a child, his tall body hunched over and, his sharp claws digging into my skin. _"Hermione…" _he repeats urgently, as though needing to confirm my existence.

**L.V.H.G**

"Get off!"

She's trying to push me away, _trying to escape_. Memories are blossoming in the back of my mind, overtaking me. I try to fight off the seizure pounding in my brain – _I had a mouth but it opened into darkness, I had eyes but there was nothing to see, I had a nose but it could smell nothing but the garlic Quirinus kept stuffed in his robes to disguise the aura of Dark magic. It was beyond demeaning, it was – _Hermione struggles in my arms. _"No!"_ I cry, "I _will_ _not_ allow it – you are_ mine_ – _you are mine!" I am Lord Voldemort!_ The mantra thrums in my blood, suffused with the force of memory – _I am Lord Voldemort – _through the forest and that meagre, parasitic existence; through disappointment, failure, misery and delirium; through exhaustion, deprivation, destruction, and excruciating torture – those four words have sustained me, and they sustain me now as I battle the rage that would drag my eyes open in the back of Quirrel's head and the claustrophobic darkness of the purple turban.

_They always fight me at first. _Quirinus Quirrel struggled too, as did the creatures of the forest. _It never lasted long_ – _"No – no – not again, please!" he wept and his head lowered, shaking, as he cringed pathetically. As if he knew the meaning of true sacrifice, true agony. How dare he, when he knew how much I needed the unicorn blood? "You would disobey Lord Voldemort?" I seethed, tightening my hold on his pitiful frame – _there is a distant noise, muffled as though underwater –_ deluging his body with pain, twisting my displeasure into his mind. I had not come so far to fail now due to the squeamishness of my vessel. Let him suffer, that pitiful, worthless – _Hermione is _screaming_ and, as I draw my hands away, my nails are dripping brilliant red with blood. But the vision bleeds into my mind; memories running together like colours.

Shocked, I abandon my grip and Hermione stumbles backward, tripping over the spitting Nagini, head hitting the side of the desk with a _thud_. There are tears in her eyes again and, wandless, she crawls away from me, her beautiful hair covering her face, cringing like Quirrel. The spectacle pushes all memories away as my fury dies. I was…_ has it been to long since my last calmative spell?_ Or perhaps they grow less effective… _have I truly so little control? _It is not Hermione's suffering that disturbs me, as she certainly deserves punishment for her impudence, but that my recollection overflowed into the present, my mind swirling in two places at once – that I can lose myself to the past so completely while my body is still conscious. I never intended to go this far – to hurt my precious one so much. Not now, not with Potter's words so fresh in her mind, not until she is mine completely.

I kneel beside her, brushing the curtain of sweet-smelling hair aside, a healing spell at my sticky fingertips. "_Hermione," _I touch her shoulder, trying to make my tone as gentle as I can,_ "Hermione_… _my love_…"

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" she screeches like an animal, causing Nagini to rise, mouth open threateningly, baring her fangs at Hermione. "DON'T – D-DON'T _TOUCH_ ME!" One red-rimmed, dark-lashed eye is visible through the quivering curtain of tangled brown curls and, in that eye, staring back at me – as through a shifting mirror – is a mad creature with slitted, crimson eyes, attacking Hermione without mercy, ripping into her soft skin with its vicious claws and scalding her with its furious magic, screaming for her to _obey_ in its awful, high-pitched voice.

"I… I was not… in control, I… m-my love, _please_…" I am as tongue-tied as Quirinus, helpless in the face of the image her despairing gaze reflects. "I did not mean for it to happen." I reach for her again and she jerks away, shaking her head in helpless retreat, tears rolling down her cheeks. My mouth is bone dry as I watch – struck dumb with horrified fascination – the death of her affection for me. The thoughts and memories flickering in her glassy iris, darkened to earthy black in the dim firelight, strike me with terrible, infinite certainty. _Why did she have to anger me? Why could she not see the worthlessness of her associates?_ "No…" I gasp out, _"no, no…" _It is the look Amy and Denis gave me at the last. Something inside me cracks to see it in Hermione; I cannot bear the weight of it on my lungs, as I try to frantically suck in air. A stare shared with Wormtail as he fed me Nagini's milk, and Albus Dumbledore, who laced it with disgust, and with my grandparents as they watched me kill my father and turn on them: _a mute, sickened horror that something so monstrous should exist. _

There is only one solution. Hermione raises her hands instinctively, as if they offer any protection from my wand.

Foolish girl.

"_Obliviate." _

**L.V.H.G**

The mattress under me is comfortable, the pillows luxurious; I don't want to open my eyes – just lie here peacefully for a while, tucked under the sheets. My arms and legs ache, exhausted, and all over I feel the prickly sensation of magically healed injuries. I can hear birdsong trilling outside. _Maybe I'm back in the girls' dormitory at Hogwarts…?_ Something cold and soft gently brushes a strand of hair away from my face and I manage to crack open my sleep-clogged eyes.

The heavy curtains are drawn, I can't tell if its morning or sunset. I'm in Voldemort's guest room at Malfoy Manor and the Dark Lord sits beside me on the bed, stroking my cheek with the back of one of those large hands, his bony knuckles caressing my skin. His robes are draped over the back of a chair leaving him in only the loose silk trousers he wore swimming and the emeralds of the golden locket glinting around his neck. I've never seen anyone's skin such a dead white. Close up, his chest is grotesque: his concave stomach and tiny waist set below a swell of ribcage clad with the thinnest layer of sinew to hide the curving bone beneath. He's built like a dancer: the only flesh under that pearly exterior is compact muscle. The smoothly porcelain face gazes down at me, the feral eyes dull and sated, like those of a cat curled in front of a fire. He tilts his head to the side, regarding me curiously as his nails lightly trace my jaw. My mum used to sit beside me like this when I was sick; sometimes she'd sing me something or dad would read aloud from _The Wind in the Willows. I miss my parents so much…_

Warm breath tickles my face, closely followed by a mouth giving a moment's pressure to my forehead. Then there's a strange, high, quivering noise that could almost be crying, but isn't. The sound of weak, wheezy lungs trying to get out something I can't quite recognise; Voldemort's chilly, sibilant voice eking out a small, breathless melody. _Merlin's pants, he's trying to sing… _He must have been reading my thoughts when I was thinking about my parents. It's… incredibly creepy and somehow… sweet. The Dark Lord's fingers are still sliding across my face tenderly.

He has to take a gulp of air in between almost every note, and I can tell he's frustrated that he obviously can't sing the way he remembered; Voldemort's voice is well up in the soprano range, rasping and hissy. It's nearly painful to hear his strange, inhuman voice trying to recite a simple song. _"It'ss... a… lovely… day… tomorrow… tomorrow… iss… a… lovely… day…" _The lyrics sound vaguely familiar, maybe a World War II song? _"Come… and… feassst… your… tear… dimmed… eyess… on… tomorrow'ss… clear… blue… sskiesss…" _I want to tell him to _please stop_ this agonising performance, knowing what despairing, possessive need must be behind it – for him to try and replace my parents – but I find myself oddly hypnotised by the bizarre sight and sound of Lord Voldemort attempting to sing this sadly hopeful melody for me in a room closed against natural light. _"If… today… your… heart… iss… weary… if… every… little… thing… looksss… grey… just… forget… your… troubles… and… learn… to… sssay… tomorrow… isss… a… lovely… day…"_

I let him move over me – helpless not to smile in the face of his peculiar recital – my hands petting the sharp ridge of his spine. There's such a tender, unguarded expression on that flat face, as if he's caught in wonder at my very being. He behaves as if, instead of a day, a few years have passed since our last meeting and he'd never expected to see me again. He kisses my forehead once more and this time his mouth moves slowly down between my eyebrows and the length of my nose until it meets my lips. I missed him. I missed _this_: his deep, clammy kisses that seem to blot out the rest of the world with their intensity, humming with Voldemort's electric magic. "I missed you…" I whisper between his thin lips.

"And I you…" he murmurs in return, his spidery hands trapping me beneath his milky body, an ungarded need shining in his blood-coloured eyes. _I could stay like this forever…_

_Are you just dropping your knickers and hoping for the best? _Harry's words sting me again. I _need_ to come up with a plan, a strategy… I can't just let things happen! This is ludicrous; I'm in enemy territory – alone in my quest to reform this insane wizard – trying to think up some kind of plan while _snogging_. I try to take stock. I'm in Voldemort's bedroom – the Death Eaters must have brought me to Voldemort after the Snatchers almost killed me and Ron at Shell Cottage. At least the Order got away. It's all a bit fuzzy, really. _Harry_… Harry would never forgive me for stealing Hufflepuff's Cup. I can't believe… I can't believe I did it… _betrayed_ _my best friends_… "I'm sorry…" the guilty thought leaks into my mouth.

Voldemort glances up and half-closed, slitted, crimson eyes blink at me; again he reminds me of a dozy, hairless tomcat. "You have done nothing to require my forgiveness," he murmurs softly as his body looms above me, "…_have you_, Hermione?" There's something deadly in his tone and it frightens me even though it shouldn't.

"N-no, I…" I feel for Hufflepuff's Cup, still where I left it in the pocket of my dressing gown, and pull it out. The chalice shines brightly in the candlelight, the lines of the engraved badger so lovely that I can't help but stare, amazed not because of the cup's status as a Horcrux, but because it was once belonged to one of the founders of Hogwarts and somehow I had forgotten that wonder along the way. _Helga Hufflepuff once drank from this cup_. I'm surprised the Snatchers didn't take it off me... like they broke my vine wood wand. My chest tightens at the thought of my ruined wand. Irrationally, it's as if someone has died and I feel ashamed of telling Ron off about crashing into the Whomping Willow when he was so upset about breaking his in second-year – it's like having a part of _me_ cut away.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" Voldemort traces a long forefinger around the rim. He doesn't snatch the cup off me, as I expect, but puts his hands around mine, pressing my fingers into the gold. "A worthy receptacle indeed for Lord Voldemort's soul – thank you, my love…" He leans down again for a lingering kiss, his tongue sliding delicately around the edge of my lips. "You have done well… very well… I am… _most pleased_…" Teeth nip playfully at my earlobe, making me gasp even as guilt sinks through my stomach like a stone. "I will kill those who have hurt you – you will not recognise the faces of your attackers by the time I have–"

"_No!"_ I try to give him a reassuring smile; it makes my cheeks feel stiff. "I mean – it's really not – no one deserves that. Please don't hurt anyone – you promised me you'd try, remember?"

Voldemort gives me a strange look, one of his curiously blank expressions that are so hard to decipher. "Of… course," he whispers quietly, "whatever you wish." Even now he clearly doesn't understand why I wouldn't want the Snatchers dead. "I can destroy _anyone _who has hurt you… perhaps the journalist? It would be a simple matter to find her. Or those who sent you such cowardly letters… everything can be traced with the right magic…" Voldemort's voice is husky and seductive; aroused by the idea of murdering Rita Skeeter and all the anonymous people who sent me hate mail in fourth year.

"Can you _stop_ going through my mind?" I snap, using irritation to cover my fear. "And for the last time _I don't want_ _anyone_ _dead!" _

Voldemort doesn't miss a beat: "Then what shall I gift you with, my sweet one? Perhaps spell books or jewels?" he takes one hand off the Horcrux to ghost his fingers over my chest where a necklace would lie. "You have returned something precious to me and I can be a generous lord." His eagerness is almost suffocating and his caresses begin to go lower, beneath the collar of my pyjamas.

I don't _want_ anything for betraying Harry. I was under the impression my reward was unhurt friends! But it's hard to say no to his bright eyes, glittering with determined insistence. "Well… I need a new wand, I guess…" I try to wriggle away from his roving hand, uncomfortable.

But, surprisingly, the Dark Lord pulls nimbly away, Horcrux in hand, striding across the room in a few steps, gracefully drawing his robes about himself and donning his cloak. I sit up in bed, looking around for my beaded bag. Voldemort glides back and forth, black silk sweeping around him. He doesn't seem to be speaking to me so much as talking to himself. "Naturally, you require a wand. Unfortunately, Ollivander is unavailable. Still there are other wand-makers. One hears excellent things about Gregorovitch wands…" Distractedly, Voldemort summons my bag and flicks it over onto the bed. There's something obsessive and frantic about his distracted pacing.

I walk through into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, letting out a stream of breath. Glancing up, I catch myself in the mirror: I look tired and pale, my hair a scraggy, knotty mess. And my once fluffy dressing-gown is looks as old and worn as I feel. It's so hard to _think _with Voldemort right there all the time! Examining my skin, I can't find any injuries, but I can still feel the ache of where they were. Part of me wishes the bruises were still there, just because I want to know what happened to me exactly. After pulling on some clean underwear, my jeans, and buttoning up my blouse, I wonder about trying a couple of spells from _Charming Hair Made Easy. _It was on the bookshelf in Ginny's room and I only had time to write down a few incantations, not try any of them out. _This is stupid – I shouldn't be thinking about my hair of all things, let alone experimenting with new charms! _ I sigh and force the birds' nest back into a ponytail and then take the opportunity to clean my teeth – which makes me feel a bit more human. _Gregorovitch… didn't Viktor mention him to me once?_

Lord Voldemort is waiting for me. He can be so still, a reptile's deadly patience. But the ice in his eyes thaws as he turns toward me, his hands running gently up into my terrible hair, making it spill out glossy and smooth, as a scarlet cloak is drawn from thin air to wrap around my shoulders, coming down to my ankles. We kiss again, and I can't help but be endeared toward this mad, wild sorcerer who is trying so hard to make me happy in spite of his mental illness. Then the thin mouth twitches and his wand is suddenly in his left hand, his right arm tight around my waist.

_Crack. _

**L.V.H.G**

Hermione appears to have suffered no ill effects from her memories being replaced. I've always had particular gift for that branch of mind-magic. She slept for such a long time and when I saw her awakening on that same bed I did weeks ago, I had a sudden, now laughable, fear that Hermione would suffer the same fate; that I had made some error and she would have lost everything. But she walks beside me in the twilight, very pretty in the bright cloak I conjured to go over her muggle clothes, her hand in mine. The sky is still pale, but the lamps are lit and my magic guides me past quaint houses with triangular timbered gables. His lodging is at the end of the street, almost obscured by an overgrown hornbeam hedge. A simple gesture and the rusted, creaky gate swings open; light spills onto the grassy path from an upstairs window.

"This doesn't look like a shop," Hermione's voice is getting squeaky, "maybe we should come back tomorrow…?"

"Nonsense," I walk confidently up to the door and knock, "you are helpless without a wand. You need one as soon as possible." Footsteps sound inside and I wait with Hermione standing behind me on the steps; she is fidgety with nerves.

A wizened, portly little man with a bushy, white beard opens the door. "Ja, gut–" the welcome dies on his lips as he looks up at me, cringing feebly back, the skin around his dark eyes paling, his own wand trembling in his right hand. His fear inspires nothing in me but impatience.

"You are the wandmaker Gregorovitch?" I inquire pointedly. "I require a wand from you."

"I have it not!" the old man cries, desperately trying to shut the door in terror. I hold it open and step forward, intrigued by his strange response. "I have it no more! Many years ago it was stolen from me! There is nothing for you here!" _Is he talking about his shop,_ _what is he trying to hide? _He does not look surprised to see me – horrified yes – but not surprised, why is that?

"Please, sir, we're sorry to alarm you, but were under the impression you sold wands?" Hermione is squeakily conciliatory.

Gregorovitch gives her a wild-eyed stare, doubtless shocked at my choice of companion. "I am retired – I have no wand to give! Go away!"

A hand is tugging on my cloak, but I ignore it. "You're_ lying_," I hiss at him, deliberately looming above his bent figure, my own wand ready to curse him if he refuses to cooperate. "You _do_ have wands – they're upstairs in the attic – boxes of them. Do_ not_ lie to me, wandmaker! You shall allow Miss Granger to select one of these wands or suffer Lord Voldemort's displeasure." _And while Hermione goes through the wands, I shall pick your mind for this mystery._

"We'll pay you!" Hermione adds hurriedly, holding her purse aloft and I find it hard not to snort derisively at her ridiculous antics. Glancing from me to Hermione and back, Gregorovitch eventually lets us in, mumbling something in German under his breath as he leads us up to his attic. I keep my wand trained on him, wary of this senile wandmaker doing anything foolish. The air is full of dust and Hermione sneezes while the muttering Gregorovitch opens up several large trunks with hands gnarled by arthritis.

"What was your first wand?" he barks at Hermione, who is still as nervous as Quirinus once was, wiping her nose on a handkerchief, her eyes watering. "I assume you need a replacement?" Gregorovitch's beady gaze keeps sliding past her towards me and each time I dip a little deeper into his memories, trying to ferret out the answer to why he was expecting Lord Voldemort at his door. His English is really surprisingly good for a man under so much stress.

"Oh, um, yes… vine – ten and three-quarter inches. The core was dragon heartstring."

"_Vine wood?"_ Gregorovitch sniffs "An Ollivander, no doubt!" He rummages around in one of the boxes, "Try – walnut and phoenix feather – ten and a quarter inches." Nothing happens. It takes a long time to find the right wand for Hermione and matters are not helped by the girl herself constantly claiming she has found the right one in order to stop me from continuing to menace Gregorovitch; a futile endeavour, of course. Meanwhile, flashes of insight begin to collect from the wandmaker. A long wand of warm wood and well vanished, decorated along its length with engravings of what look like tiny clusters of berries; a sense of power in Gregorovitch's plump hand, greater than he has ever felt; a blond-haired young man perched on a window-ledge like a giant bird, aiming a Stunning Spell at Gregorovitch and leaping out of the window, with a crow of triumphant laughter. _And it is this stolen wand that the wandmaker thought brought me here? I wonder…_

A fountain of crimson sparks illuminates the room with sudden brilliance. "Hah!" Even under duress Gregorovitch appears to derive a certain dour satisfaction from his old craft, "White poplar and dragon heartstring – eleven inches – I would not have expected… _no_, a _good_ wand; A wand for overcoming great trials. Strong." He is giving Hermione an appraising stare I do not like, as if something about her has caught his eye that he did not see before. It looks far more natural than many of Ollivander's, shaped like a simple, pale rod as the ancient wands were, without ornamentation. Then the wandmaker seems to remember himself and his hostility. He throws up his hands. "There! Now you leave me in peace, yes?"

"H-how much?" Hermione is reaching into her purse determinedly, to my amusement.

Gregorovitch mumbles something in reply I cannot quite hear, waving away her coins. Hermione's brown eyes are wide, her mouth pinched in a frown, still holding out her gold. He backs away from us: "Please – _go_ – leave an old man be!"

"Very well, wandmaker. Come, Hermione…"

"But–"

"_Come."_

She throws the money just as we disapparate, coins striking the old wooden floorboards in a swirl of dust and gold as the world tunnels into blackness.

**L.V.H.G**

My eyes blink open in the dark. It's late, I know, but I've rested all day because of my injuries – I don't feel sleepy at all. It's hard to feel safe here; I can occasionally hear the movements of Death Eaters in the corridors. Voldemort told me he warded the doorway to his chambers so no one can get in, but it still feels wrong. This is Draco Malfoy's house, and the room oozes Slytherin – it's like a shadowed, silvery forest. Voldemort is asleep beside me, while Nagini is curled up under the bed, her yellow eyes ever watchful, ready to strike an intruder; I know the snake will alert Voldemort if anything disturbs us. I think they sleep in shifts.

It startled me how easily we both assumed we would sleep in the same bed. How nice it is to just lie together under crisp sheets, listening to another heart beat and feeling Voldemort's skin smooth and tepid against mine. All the same, it still makes me nervous, the assumption inherent in it – his possessive behaviour. As if he owns me, signed on the dotted line, and having sex is just a technicality he's willing to forgo until I say I want it. I shift away from him, towards my side of the bed. A soft hiss escapes between his teeth and his milky shoulders shift a little, but Voldemort is sound asleep.

The white poplar wand is resting on the bedside table, next to an empty silver vase.I'm glad to have it, obviously, but it makes me feel bad: not giving myself time to mourn my old vine wood wand. I can still hear the awful, splintering noise in my mind. The new one feels different and I can't make myself think of it as mine yet. I rub my eyes and stare up at the bed's canopy, where embroidered snakes twine among black velvet leaves. A gilded glint in the darkness catches the corner of my eye: Hufflepuff's Cup sitting on Voldemort's desk, visible through the open door to the study.

I don't know why, but I find myself getting up – taking care not to wake the Dark Lord – and tip-toeing through to the other room, quietly shutting the door behind me and lighting the study with a non-verbal _Lumos_. The cup sits on the desk innocuously and I suddenly feel foolish and turn my gaze instead toward the many books that line Voldemort's study. But just as I move away to take a closer look at the spines, something begins to swirl in the bottom of the Horcrux.

It's like a cross between smoke and water, dark and bubbling in the goblet as if boiling and I have a strange sense of déjà vu, as if I've seen something like it before, though I can't think where. As I edge closer to the golden cup, the misty liquid stills, suddenly limpid, and I can see the ghost of my face reflected in its steaming, mirror-like surface. Then the reflection shivers and I can see the vague outline of a boy – slowly becoming clearer – around my age, with dark blue eyes and wild, jet black hair like Harry's. But his face is nothing like my friend's; handsome and hollow-cheeked. We stare at each other and he mouths something into the silence and I probably wouldn't have been able to figure out what the word was through the obscuring almost-water, had the image of someone else mouthing it not burned into my memory: _Hermione… _The boy's eyes glitter and he gestures for me to come closer, closer_, closer_.

_Drink. _The word arrives in my head. Tom Riddle gives me an encouraging smile. I really_ don't_ fancy drinking what looks like essence of evil soul magic. The face in the Horcrux keeps smiling up at me, nodding and mutely calling my name. "I'm not drinking from a piece of someone else's soul," I tell it firmly. The lovely, dark eyes plead and the Horcrux pouts slightly. _Drink._ "No, I'm sorry; you'd have to be a complete moron to ignore the many reasons why drinking from a Horcrux is a bad idea."

_Drink? _He mouths something else I can't decipher and, as my face dips still closer in an effort to lip-read, the words stretch into a wicked grin and I'm drawn downward as if by a magnet. I yelp as I fall into that nasty smile like through a pensieve, slipping through smoky void until I my feet land unexpectedly on the thickly carpeted floor of the Hogwarts library.

"That was a dirty trick!" I protest, looking around for Tom Riddle and, sure enough, he's sitting at one of the study tables next to the Restricted Section. He isn't wearing a school uniform though, but a dark suit and a thick, black cloak. He doesn't look like a student at all, in fact. Just as with my meetings with the locket, there's no one else here. _So this is what Tom Riddle looked like. _He's very handsome; although he's pale, his skin still looks human and his eyes are free of red. I'm so used to his pearly, waxen features that it's quite hard to recognise him as Voldemort at all, except maybe by the high cheekbones and his enigmatic smirk. He's holding a quill, smoothing it idly against his throat and looks to be in the middle of writing out a set of notes.

"We can't all be diaries begging to be written in," he remarks dryly, gesturing for me to sit opposite him at the study table. "Besides, I have no desire to harm you," Riddle treats me to another disarming smile as I sit down, bending over to brush his lips across my knuckles. I pull my hand away. "I merely wished to ask if I could render you any service."

I frown, "What do you mean?"

He raises his eyebrows in cold surprise. "You tried to persuade Potter to spare me and you intend to reunite me with Lord Voldemort. I think it only fair that I offer you something in return."

"Oh!" This has to be the last thing I expected the Horcrux to say. "Could… could you teach me Occlumency?"

He tilts his head thoughtfully to the side. "Possibly, though I do not think such a thing would be advisable. It would take a considerable length of time and I fear I should be tempted to devour you in the process. Of course, I should be glad to attempt to teach you if that is what you want."

"No thank you…" I say awkwardly. "Look, you really don't owe me anything, I did it because–"

"I know _why_ you did it," he interjects, his voice silken, "your motives and general behaviour disgust me. Nevertheless, you have defended Lord Voldemort against those who would seek to destroy him and I will not see such a thing go unrewarded." _Wow, they all talk about themselves in the third person._

"I do have one question," I begin tentatively, carefully phrasing what I will say in my head before speaking aloud. "The Locket Horcrux claims it knows why Voldemort lost his memory, but it won't tell me. Maybe you could help me figure it out?"

"That is an _interesting_ question. First, tell me about what you know about the circumstances of the amnesia," he sounds like a doctor with his pleasant, yet formal tone. The Horcrux nods along when I explain things, occasionally asking questions to clarify how Voldemort reacted to certain situations or memories. When I finish, Tom Riddle puts down his quill and leans forward onto long, steepled fingers, his darkly blue eyes looking thoughtfully upwards. He's silent for a long time, completely ignoring me, and just when I think about interrupting his musing, he replies: "I believe I have an idea, though it is no means certain, you understand?"

"Anything you can tell me would be helpful."

He stands up, heavy wooden chair scraping backwards, and perches on the edge of the table. "What is the heaviest sentence the Wizengamot metes out?"

"The Dementor's Kiss," I answer promptly.

"And what are its effects?"

"It reduces a person to an incurable vegetative state by sucking out their soul; they have no awareness of themselves or the world around them. What does this have to do with Voldemort's amnesia? He just lost his memory, he's not catatonic."

"What am I, then?" Riddle pushes himself off the desk, a melancholy look in his eyes.

"You're a Horcrux, obviously!" I roll my eyes.

"I'm a _memory_, Hermione Granger, a memory preserved in an ancient cup for many years." He looks extremely troubled. "When a wizard makes a Horcrux he encases a portion of his soul inside an object. You have read _Secret of the Darkest Art, _you know the theory. What is your soul but your sense of self – your _memories_? And what would happen to the wizard who shed so much of himself so as to verge dangerously close to the victim of the Dementor?" The blue eyes are narrowed and stormy, glinting red. "I always knew it was a risk, but I thought my precautions satisfactory…"

"What precautions?"

He rounds on me, his long fingers gripping the arms of my chair, "Six Horcruxes!_ Seven_ pieces of soul! The most magical number, the number of completion, of _wholeness_, as it were. You see the significance, of course?"

"You mean Voldemort's soul is in more than seven pieces and that's what causing this? So it's true about Harry?"

Tom Riddle steps away from me, his face almost as white as his future self. His eyes are wide, his face slack with fear. "What do you mean... more than _seven_?" he repeats with dull horror as his shock dissolves the Hogwarts Library around me into nothingness and I'm flung backwards into Voldemort's dark study.

* * *

_Next Chapter: Fun with Ollivander and the Elder Wand! _


	22. House Elves & Children's Tales

**Title: **_You Know Who?_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling; I am just playing with them for my own amusement and hopefully those of others.

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Hermione Granger, Lord Voldemort, plus the general cast of characters appearing in _Deathly Hallows._

**Pairing: **Hermione/Voldemort (note: when it says Voldemort it means _Voldemort_, not Tom Riddle).

**Summary: **What would you do if you woke up with no memory, looking like a monster, stuck in a room with a giant snake? Well, Lord Voldemort is in exactly that situation when magic brings him to the home of Hermione Granger.

**Author's Notes: **_Thank you so much_ to all my wonderful reviewers for being _so very patient!_ I've had a lot of work over the summer and it's been crazy trying to write fanfiction as well. I worked a ten hour shift yesterday *shudders*. Couple that with a new boyfriend insisting on spending time with me, and finding space in the day for writing has been hard – but so many of you have been incredibly supportive of me; I feel totally blessed to have such an awesome group of people who like what I write. And an amazing anonymous reviewer even drew me some fan art! WOW! Thank you so much! I've put links in my profile so everyone can see the wonderful art. I especially love Hermione's expression in the first one. I'm continually surprised and delighted by how popular this oddball story has turned out to be. This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Lady Miya, who had a specific request regarding Hermione's undergarments. I thought very carefully about that this chapter and about my decision to write this as a T rated romance story. Hopefully the result satisfies. For those wondering about the memories Voldemort replaced in the last chapter, I'm being deliberately vague about what exactly Hermione remembers. She's a little unsure herself about what happened, but attributes her confused memories to being stunned by a snatcher.

**Chapter Twenty-Two: House-Elves and Children's Tales**

_The shrill cry seemed to linger in the scented, early morning air; a peacock, flaring its snowy plumage across the dewy grass. The sky was slowly paling above the topiary as the bird strutted in the thinning, pre-dawn darkness. I could smell gardenias and Narcissa Malfoy's rose garden. Somewhere, Nagini was staking out a rabbit warren – she liked to share her excitement with me. My indifference to food disturbed a creature who took so much joy in her meals. My dear one… several times she has attempted convincing me to take up cannibalism. She does not understand why I would waste such prey. Really, I couldn't think of anything more disgusting than ingesting the filth who dared to oppose Lord Voldemort. I did not mind living off venom and Dark magic. As long as I took occasional precautions to sustain this form with the correct rituals when I found myself at leisure, I could happily exist entirely without the need for food; quite apart from the foul taste, eating took up so much time and energy. _

_I shook my head a little, tried to clear it of chasing prey through long, Albanian grasses and streams, of snapping my jaw shut and pumping venom into a hot, wriggling creature, its warm blood spraying my face as it thrashed. My stomach turned and my skull vibrated as I bit down hard on empty air in sympathy with the recollection. No, _not _my face: my vessel's face. I convulsively reached for my wand, felt for it in the pocket of my robes, and allowed myself to luxuriate in the slight friction of my fingers against the smoothly polished wood. Lord Voldemort's wand. The wand I had dreamed of being reunited with for so long. The memories were clear as only those burned in by suffering could be. I stopped and clasped my hands together, hugged my shoulders, felt my face – needing to confirm it was all here. A body – mine – my own skin. My mouth twitched in disgust and I forced myself to stop. It had been almost two years since my rebirth, I thought myself past this. I was Lord Voldemort; I would not allow myself this weakness._

_Taking my hands from my eyes, I opened them into the near-dawn. Ghostly feathers lay still on the lawn. The bird was dead – I must have killed it in my discomfort. __I dreamt of the forest again tonight, its supreme wilderness and deadly grandeur, so unlike this formal garden. I did not care for this place – indeed, I would not be at Malfoy Manor if it did not serve to make an excellent political point to my Death Eaters and provide a highly defensible centre of operations. There was old magic here. Not like at Hogwarts, but enough for my purposes. I felt it choked by the layers of marble and pretension: wild, black magic waiting to be set free. It seeped up through the foundations and thrilled at the presence of a Dark Lord. Abraxas told me once that it was the ground where Morgana sanctified her rule. The Malfoys did not deserve this place they could not feel. _

_I stepped forward to vanish the peacock to my rooms. Nagini could have it for lunch later – perhaps she would get a taste for them and rid the grounds of the gaudy birds. __Its dull eyes were open, red and beady. I reached down to stroke its beautiful plumage, as white as my hand against its feathers. We were alike, the exotic bird and I; anomalies thrown up by nature. But it was dead and I could never die. I had conquered Nature's cruel, careless cycle…_

"_My Lord!" A hoarse voice cracked the pleasant air. A flick of my wand and the peacock had vanished. It was Yaxley, as eager for praise as a dog. And speaking of dogs, there was Greyback at his heels, leering in anticipation of his reward. Yaxley knelt on the grass, bringing the hem of my robe to his lips, panting in excitement. "We have captured Ollivander as you asked, my Lord." _

"_Very good," I smiled, praising them both, though I felt no pleasure at their news. I would not be happy until Dumbledore was dead and Harry Potter had fallen at my feet, all question of prophecy settled once and for all. And that was why I needed the wandmaker, who would tell me why my wand had refused to kill Potter in the graveyard that night. Besides, it was an excellent strategic move to control the supply of quality wands – and many of my followers who had been imprisoned required rearming._

_The old man lay crumpled in the cellar, bleeding from the temple. His silver eyes were watery with tears. "Yew," he lisped weakly through broken teeth, "...a-and phoenix f-feather. Thirteen and a ha-half inches. A powerful wand… one of t-the most p-powerful I have ever made…" He shuddered, hacking up blood, backing away from me across the stone floor, curling upon himself into the pitiful ball. Yet I respected his skills as a craftsman and still retained a certain gratitude towards the man who made Lord Voldemort's wand. For his sake, he had better not waste such regard. _

_I stroked my wand affectionately with the fingers of my right hand, staring down at him thoughtfully. "In all these years the wand of yew that you made me has done everything of which I asked it… except once, Ollivander. It is of that occasion that I wish to speak."_

"_M-may I, your Lordship?" he held out a trembling hand, blinking up at me but not meeting my eyes. I almost cursed him for his impudence, but I needed this man's knowledge. My Death Eaters were just outside and Yaxley had yielded up to me Ollivander's own weapon. He was no match for Lord Voldemort, especially in such a state. I gave him my wand. Ollivander held it close, rolling it between his frail fingers, flexing it slightly, examining it with faded, near-sighted eyes. "Aah… yes, how well I remember..." His sunken eyes glazed over as he peered at it, something almost voyeuristic, near lecherous in his expression as he felt along its length. "A formidable wand… one of my best creations… and in f-fine condition… you have taken good c-care of it…"_

"_Enough!" I hissed, snatching it back, not liking to see Lord Voldemort's wand in another's hands and becoming impatient with his flattery. But I softened my voice to my most persuasive tone, controlling my irritation. "Tell me how to overcome what happened when I attempted to duel Harry Potter. Tell me the reason for the Priori Incantatem effect when our spells met. Tell me, and you will find Lord Voldemort can be most generous to those who serve him well."_

"_My Lord, please, I cannot say, there is no reason w-why…"_

"_Look at me when I address you, wandmaker." _

_The tearful eyes gazed piteously into mine and I saw flashes of memory in their silvery sheen: _Ollivander presenting Potter with his wand:_ "_It is curious that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar..." Ollivander in the back room of his shop talking to a wizard I knew all too well in canary yellow robes: "How fascinating… such very rare effect between two wands, Professor Dumbledore, as I'm sure you know…"

_The old man shook his head, the picture of venerable innocence, unaware I was about to catch him in his lie. "No, I – I really have no i-idea–" _

"_Do not lie to me, Ollivander! I always know. I see that Dumbledore has told you of our duel! _Crucio!" _He coiled and squirmed at my feet, his old body cracking and flailing helplessly, slapping loudly against the stone floor. "Now, wandmaker, you will tell Lord Voldemort what you know." _

"_No… please no… I w-won't…!"_

_I lost control. I had wanted to spare him out of respect for the wand he made me, but how… how could _he,_ who knew my power, believe in Potter? _A child!_ Even my own followers had truly believed a child had – still has! – the power to vanquish me. What would it take to crush the hope of my demise? How many more will I have to kill before they understand that Lord Voldemort is eternal? I flung Ollivander against the wall, feeling a vicious satisfaction when I heard a shattering of bone. I laughed at his being so tormented by the wand he was so proud of; the pleasure of the Dark Arts tingling up my spine. Taking his scrawny neck in my right hand, I pressed my wand against his temple and smiled. I smiled indulgently into his snivelling, broken, terrified face. He was lucky he was still useful to me. Otherwise I would have ripped everything from him and shattered his mind, as I did with Bertha Jorkins, and fed his remains to Nagini. "I understand you have a son?" I whispered, our faces mere inches apart. "A budding craftsman following in the footsteps of his father… Lucius informs me he has a fine talent for wand-making. Is your loyalty to a boy you hardly know worth your son's life, Ollivander?"_

"_M-m-my Lord, ple-e-ease…" He wriggled and cried like a rodent caught between the teeth and I lapped up his helplessness with that same thrill of satisfaction._

"_It is not my decision to make," I informed him simply. "His existence is entirely in your hands." _

"_Y-you can't – n-no, no!"_

"_Then tell Lord Voldemort what he wishes to know." I released him and the wandmaker crumpled to the floor. "Tell me how to kill Harry Potter or you will watch my Death Eaters end the lives of your family."_

_Ollivander sobbed helplessly, one hand blindly searching for his glasses. Pathetic old fool. "The connection is between the cores of y-your wands… the phoenix gave two f-feathers… neither wand will duel its brother… any… any other wizard's wand… c-could duel P-Potter's… Please don't… m-my son… I beg you…!"_

**L.V.H.G**

It is not yet light. The manor has slipped back from dawn to night, the moon restored to its zenith. I stretch lazily, enjoying the lingering satisfaction of breaking Ollivander. Yawning, I feel for the comfort of Hermione's warmth in the bed beside me, but my hand brushes through empty sheets. Panic jolts me into wakefulness, only to subside as quickly as it came when I catch sight of her pyjama-clad figure in the next room. She appears stunned, her round face pale, perhaps awed and longing to own the vast array of volumes which line the walls of the study. I know I would have reacted similarly, at that age. Quietly rising, I sneak up behind her – my bare feet silent on the thick carpet – and wrap my arms around her waist, causing her to startle with a squeak of surprise; like a trapped mouse. I brush my flat nose against her smooth neck, breathing her in deeply.

We stand there for an interminable time, each lost in our own thoughts, as she slowly relaxes into my embrace. I cannot commit words to such a moment, I fear speech would disrupt such fragile beauty, as if I were to cast a pebble into a limpid pool. I remember my voice in her feverish thoughts: demanding and inhuman in its abrasiveness, high-pitched and grating against her ears. Without knowing when I begin to move, I find myself kissing her sweet-smelling skin. Gently, I press my mouth to the termination of her jaw, the curve of her throat and shoulder, the shallow hollow of her temple, and the fleshly bead of her earlobe. Closing my night-seeing eyes, I map her topography with my lips – a sightless, possessive cartographer taking careful note of each little sigh, each inadvertent twitch of pleasure from my living dominion.

"I – I don't – we really s-shouldn't…" Hermione's fear is lumpen and awkward, trying to shape itself into a ward against her desire and failing: meaningless, stuttering gasps of air.

"What do you fear, Hermione?" I whisper, coaxing my voice out light and silken. "Why, with all of your Gryffindor valiance and the brave deeds you have accomplished, is it_ this_ which frightens you?" _I am sick of being denied. _The perfection of the moment is slipping through my fingers, her reticence souring its loveliness. Must I be in pain for her to fling her arms around me of her own accord? Why should she still refuse me after all the care I have shown her? Have I not waited long enough? Lord Voldemort offers himself to a mudblood girl – a yielding more complete that he has ever known – and she refuses; to _need_ another being to such a degree – for days I have been struggling with this canker in my thoughts; the weight of the _obscene_ necessity of this ridiculous young witch! Hermione can only stare up at me with her wide, brown eyes.

_Oh, oh… I ought to have killed her. I should have ended her existence in that deserted country lane… when I still could… before she made me feel these terrible things. _"Lord Voldemort does not break his word. I will not hurt you, my love." _Am I truly so repulsive?_ It is on my tongue but I shall not say it, I refuse to let the words rush out of me like a plea. I will not stoop so low. The memories I stole from her are still fresh in my mind, _the horror and supreme aversion in her eyes_… "I cannot…" _I cannot bear it when you shrink from me. Oh Slytherin, stop. Stop talking now. This is pathetic. This is the most pathetic thing I have ever thought. _She does not respond as I desperately meet her lips with my own, my kisses pleading that which my voice will not. But Hermione is frozen in my arms.

I know what will make her leap joyfully into Lord Voldemort's keeping: if I spare another one of her filthy friends, or if I reject the persecution of mudbloods, or perhaps if I agree that murder is abhorrent. But I will not do it, _I will not!_ I will not alter my principles so that Hermione may become my whore for hers. I withdraw, glaring at her coldly, before turning away, unwilling to let her see my pain and the dangerous anger filling my stomach like a twisting serpent. Patting my trouser pockets for my wand, I realise it is still in the other room, lying under my pillow. I am not at all certain of the efficacy of wandless calming spells and I refuse to submit to another seizure atop everything else. Turning on my heel, I stalk back to the bedroom but a hand catches my fingers just as I reach the doorway.

I can hear Hermione breathing, swallowing hard. "Don't," squeaks the small voice behind me.

"Do not _what?_" My tone is low and deadly. I cease my steps, but do not turn. I find I do not wish to look at her. I _despise _her.

"There's something I–"

Bowing my head, I stare at the dark carpet, stilled. "I am not a child, Hermione. I know why you are with me. I know why you stole my cup back from your friends. I know why you let me kiss you. I know. I_ always _know. But I find it is not enough to have you close your eyes and imagine I am not Lord Voldemort. If you are truly set upon this course then you will be mine absolutely. You will… _love_ me." The nauseous verb stings me with the bitterest self-loathing imaginable. Weakness. _Such abyssal weakness._ My insides rot with shame; bile burning my stomach. "And if not, you will leave my presence immediately. You will return to your companions and you will ensure that I never set eyes on you again." _A lie._ I will kill her, vow or no vow. As soon as she turns her back (I have no wish to see the life leave her eyes). She will be mine or dead. But it is destroying me, this hopelessness. Something in me is dying as surely as it did the night I killed my father. Because I know that in a few seconds I will be alone. Perhaps it will be a relief. It was a relief when his head hit the floor. Hope fell away and left me with a beautiful simplicity of mind. Yes, this shall be a relief. It _must_ be.

"You still think I'm going to abandon you," her footsteps seem so loud behind me. "You don't even believe I care about you – so you're _ordering_ me to love you?-! Who's to say you'd believe that either, or even _see_ it? Not to mention the fact that you certainly don't love _me_! Haven't you understood _anything,_ you – you – thick-headed_…"_ she trails off, not daring to finish her insult. I do not reply, unwilling to acknowledge her. Hermione's voice softens, losing some of its exasperation. "Maybe you were right the other night – I don't know much about love either. But I'm staying. I'm staying because I don't break my promises either and… and you're the most brilliant, intelligent, stupid, flawed, crazy person I've ever met and you _need_ me. A-and I want to… t-to stay with you. My terrifying warlock. Oh Merlin, l-look at me, it's _true!_" She sounds as if she is on the brink of tears. And I turn, if only to torment her with her own mendacity, to observe her pain, to torture her like Ollivander; tear apart her memories and pluck out the most horrible, wrenched things she has ever experienced and fling them upon her senses until her voice is no longer fit for screaming...

…_His shoulders are narrow, his body waif-like, the blue veins running down his neck illuminated by my bright wand-light. The face is as disturbing as ever, but not so alien when beheld with the rest of him – less mask-like… fragile…__The livid eyes glimmer like lost jewels… _ _Under the candlelight, he really does have an attraction all his own, an alien symmetry to his smooth, angular features and the luminous quality of his unnaturally white skin and large scarlet eyes. Not handsome by any stretch of the imagination, but almost beautiful – in his own otherworldly way… __The muted colours of the quilt flatter his alabaster skin and he seems… less like a deformed wizard and more like a new species of humanoid in his own right. I think I'm more… aware of him that I have been of any other person… he breathes my name like an incantation; in his high, eldritch voice it becomes a magical thing to be whispered to the under the moon,__"Hermione…" __The contrast of his hairless, marmoreal flesh against my pink skin is fascinating as he kisses between my breasts and I can feel an inside ache I've never felt before, a sharp tugging in my navel that takes the breath out of my lungs. It makes me shudder and pull away, not wanting to let Lord Voldemort make me feel all this, scared of how much power he has over my body…_

I become so lost in the thoughts swirling in her warm, long-lashed gaze that I flinch when her hand unexpectedly caresses me, touching the smooth flatness of my reptilian nose. She saw me like my first followers had done after the ritual of Walpurgis – as what I had _always_ wanted to be: an extraordinary being free from time and humanity. Unique. Wondrous. "It's true, see?" she smiles weakly – sadly – up at me. "But it's not easy – you've… I'm... it's still… _difficult_… and I haven't, I mean, I've never let anyone… and… and I _really_ think–" As her fingers – slightly sweaty from sleep or fear – continue to stroke my face, I lean down into her touch, unwilling to deny myself one moment of it as her ministrations and her memories dissolve my anger.

"_Hermione…" _I breathe her name, trying to achieve the exact tone she so admired.

Her hand falls away. "But oh, I've just found out something – something _important!_"

"It can wait._" _I snatch hold of Hermione's chin and crush my mouth against hers. I need her physical reassurance, inhaling her desire through our mingled air as I pull her tight against me.

**L.V.H.G**

There's hardly any breath in my lungs and my lips are bruised and tingling. The metallic taste of blood is on my tongue and I'm not sure which of us is bleeding. Both our mouths are raw and greedy. It's insane. _We just don't stop kissing. _Voldemort is frantic. His arms lock around me and hold on like someone drowning. The slitted nostrils are spasming almost to the point of hyperventilation, quick exhalations fanning my face as we kiss. I remember how furious I'd been on seeing Ron and Lavender snogging like this in public – a stumbling, uncouth face-sucking that didn't look at all attractive – but somehow even though my lips are hurting and I know the backs of my knees are about to knock into the edge of the bed, I want to keep going. It's who-knows-what hour past midnight and I'm too far gone to deny either of us this relief. Not that I ever suspected that snogging a Dark Lord could come under the category of _relief_. This is an incredibly bad idea I'll regret soon enough, I'm sure. But right now… right now I simply _don't care._

I don't have to worry about my friends right now, or the multiple pieces of Voldemort trying to push their own agenda, or what I've just discovered about the state of his mind and soul. Instead Voldemort is gasping endearments into my mouth. He doesn't close his eyes as we kiss; I can see those crimson, glow-in-the-dark eyes burning an inch from my own, their slitted pupils gone from the thinnest line to a dilation that's almost human. _"Beautiful, my own beautiful one, such lovelinessss…" _The sibilant words do something to my skin, spreading over it like ghostly wildfire. He pulls at my pyjama top, scattering kisses over my suddenly electrified neck. I expect him to go straight for my chest, but he doesn't. As my top lands on the floor, Voldemort's mouth is worshipping my shoulder-blades and spine, his large hands brushing up and down the curve of my waist.

It's wonderful, but it feels unfair; I'm the only one whose senses are being invaded. I want to see what _he_ looks like if I do the same to him. After what happened in the Forest of Dean, I want to make him dissolve under _my_ hands and mouth. I want to hear those helplessly inarticulate hisses I remember. Wriggling round in his arms, I find his collarbone is almost level with my lips and I attack him there – trying to imitate his delicate little kisses – reaching up to run my fingernails across his bony shoulders. The first hiss comes out through clenched teeth, the second as his mouth falls open in a gasping, shuddering waterfall of Parseltongue.

Voldemort stops, very still against me, his head bowed and staring at our bare feet. If I didn't know better I'd say he was embarrassed. "What is it?" I ask, worried I'm doing something wrong. Looking round, I notice Nagini on the rug, her unblinking yellow eyes fixed on us intently; tongue out as if tasting our scents. I can't help giving her a nervous smile. "You know, erm… your snake is watching us." Lifting his chin, Voldemort glances distractedly over at Nagini and hisses something at her. She uncoils herself and glides closer to us over the carpet, her scales glinting in the cracks of moonlight visible through the draped curtains. The Dark Lord continues speaking, his tone growing more and more insistent. I think they might be having an argument, I'm not sure. The huge viper becomes agitated, rearing and displaying her fangs. But Voldemort's harsh commands eventually send her bulk slithering into the next room, still hissing discontentedly. "What was that about?"

"She wanted to…" Voldemort pauses, "… remain with us. She – ah – she did not like the idea of Lord Voldemort being distracted by a female without her to stand guard."

"Oh…" I feel incredibly awkward now, covering myself with my hands, hyper-aware of what I'm doing and with whom I'm doing it now that the momentum as stopped. "Um, w-well I suppose that makes sense… um…"

"Sssh…" Voldemort puts a long finger to my lips, then leans in and replaces the digit with his mouth. It's a slower, gentler kiss. He tugs down the elastic of my pyjama bottoms and I tense instinctively. My legs feel cold without my cotton pyjamas. Especially since, I realise – mortified – I'm wearing the old knickers my mum bought me two Christmases ago, which have little orange cats all over them. I remember what Harry said to me and I can feel my cheeks turn pink. _Please let Harry not be seeing this… please let him be shielding his mind like Professor Dumbledore told him… Oh, this is crazy. I shouldn't be doing this. How can I end this now without Voldemort throwing a tantrum?_

"Do you know what a male adder does to indicate his admiration for a female of his species?" that high, eerie voice whispers into my ear.

"No…?"

"He licks her all over, tasting and pleasuring her scales with his tongue." Voldemort smirks at me, his thin mouth stretched into a leer, and his tongue darts out suggestively; shockingly pink against his colourless face.

"You're making that up!" I accuse him, wanting to wipe off that evil grin. He gives me one of those taut, enigmatic smiles I know so well, livid eyes gleaming, and his hands settle on my shoulders, applying just enough pressure to seat me on the edge of the bed. He removes the golden locket from his neck and places it on the table beside the bed. Then Voldemort does something I never would have imagined: he kneels between my legs. It's an elegantly unexpected folding of limbs. His trousers – made of the same floaty, black silk as his robes – settle around him gracefully. _Lord Voldemort is kneeling in front of me. _All I can do is watch. He grasps one of my ankles and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss into the arch of my left foot. At first I try to pull away, ticklish. But then his lips touch the Dark Mark tattooed there and warm bliss seeps into my nerves. He sucks on the skin, biting it playfully, making the mark almost crackle like static on my skin.

He carefully licks the insides and undersides of my legs – every inch of skin. I'm fascinated by the patient, meticulous process. If it were anyone else – Ron or Viktor maybe – I would have told them to stop being so silly; there's something so ludicrous, so pedantic about devoting such especial care to each little gift of saliva. Maybe some serpentine instinct is telling him to mark me all over with possessive licks. It's a nice thing really, I suppose. Quite sweet. But when he finally moves up to my knickers I'm not nervous at all. If I'm honest, I'm glad to get there at last.

**L.V.H.G**

It is impossible to think. In the epitome of physicality, I have slipped away – buoyed on a tide of pleasure; I roll across Hermione's nakedness, giddily incorporeal in climax. She cries out, not in ecstasy but fear as the weight of me atop her dissipates into bubbling spirit. I am _in _her, spilling delightfully into emotion and memory, rubbing myself against them, frisking across her thoughts, glutting myself on her happiness. Her arms are unable to hold me, passing though my soul like black smoke. I have never been able to feel anything like this before, a seraphic perfection that catapulted me from my fleshly construct of a body and into the air. Hermione shivers, moving to pull the sheets up to hide the lovely expanse of her skin. _Please, _I ask, still lazily eddying about in her mind, _let us remain like this awhile – do not cover yourself just yet._ Through her eyes I see the shadow of Lord Voldemort above her, a half-manifested billowing of darkness gathering like storm-clouds as I ease out of her mind to feel her skin against mine.

I stroke her hair, spread about her like a banner, the tingling essence of my spirit finally settling back into skin. Kissing her, I wordlessly reassure Hermione of my material stability. Now that we have stopped, she shifts beneath me – stiff and sore from the loss of her virginity. Disentangling myself, I put my left hand to the beautifully sticky orifice and soothe her pain with my magic, making her sigh and arch into my fingers. "That feels _so_ much better, thanks… _argh_…" Hermione reaches shakily for her watch on the bedside table, almost knocking over the empty bottle of the potion I summoned for her. I lied and told Hermione it was a contraceptive. In truth, this body is completely infertile and what I gave her was a powerful antivenin. As the main ingredient in my present constitution is Nagini's milk, I thought it best she take a very different sort of precaution. "Wow… it's almost six o' clock…" Lines of light peek in though the gaps in the curtains, stretching across the floor toward the bed like curious bystanders. Hermione groans and slumps down again onto the pillows beside me. I adore how warm and soft her body is. We stare at each other, twining our limbs, her brown eyes blinking across at me. No memory I possess can equal the contentedness I feel.

"Is… is it always like that?" Hermione asks tentatively. "Was it… um… the same with other girls?"

I shake my head, "I cannot guarantee this, of course, but I believe the last time I had sex was before you were born."

"Well, _yes_, but… I mean… was it…?" she stares up at the canopy, blushing, searching for words to describe what she wants to ask.

"No," I plant idle kisses along her cheek, "for me the act always served some purpose. It was an exercise or a tool, not an end in itself. The feelings this evoked were entirely dissimilar."

"You _possessed_ me…" she sounds as if she still doesn't quite believe it.

"You did not find that pleasurable?"

"You promised you wouldn't do it again unless it was necessary to our survival!" I can tell she is not as angry as she would like to appear. Coitus has diffused much of her usual nervous energy.

"It was not a… conscious… decision on my part, Hermione." She sighs and runs a hand over my ribs. She looks sad again, perhaps reminded of the death of the Auror. I hope she does not feel the need to have another guilty cry again after being intimate with me. I pull her closer, "What was the thing you found out earlier and were so desperate to communicate to me?" Hopefully, a diversionary tactic will distract her from any snivelling. I close my eyes, resting my head in the comfortable curve of her neck.

"Oh!" her whole body jolts. "W-well… um… I found out about… about… R.A.B."

"_Who was it?"_ I hiss, sitting up; my post-coital affability thoroughly ruined.

"Regulus Black… Harry told me. He's… he's already dead."

I do not recall the name. Presumably he was a scion of one of the branches of the Black family. I wanted to disembowel, him – whoever he was. Rip his insides to shreds! I hated him even more for being dead. _"How did he find the cave and discover my secret? How–?-!" _

"Maybe you should calm down?"

My first instinct is to turn on her for daring to suggest… but then I see Hermione's meaning. "Yes," I manage to grate out unwillingly, taking my wand from beneath my pillow and letting my fury freeze in the ice of a Calmative Spell. I lie back down beside Hermione and take a deep breath. "Continue…"

"He was a Death Eater and, apparently, you asked for his house-elf when you were finishing the cave's defences – y-you told Kreacher, Regulus' elf, t-to drink the p-potion…" And now she's crying. _Again._ Over a house-elf, of all things. "And… and you left him there to die!"

"Naturally," I refuse to indulge her tears, "but I am guessing the elf did _not_ die?"

"N-no, apparently Regulus had ordered him to come home. A house-elf's highest law is his master's bidding – I looked it up in fourth year – so Kreacher was able to disapparate. He made it back and told Regulus what happened. And… a-and Regulus must have guessed about what the locket was, must have been regretting joining your service so he… he asked Kreacher to take him back to the cave and he drank the p-poison… oh, it's _awful_…"

"Where is the elf now?" I had to consider the safety of the diadem. If this… Kreacher… had told Harry Potter, he could tell anyone the secret of the cave.

Hermione stares at me, her bushy, sex-tousled hair crackling with her fiery magic and her face splotchy with tears. She grabs my arms and fixes me with a near-demented gaze. "Don't you _dare_, Tom Marvolo Riddle – _don't you bloody dare! _What you did to that elf was_ sick_ – it drove him mad! You thought he was far beneath your notice, just like the pure-bloods who treat elves like animals! It didn't even _occur _to you that Kreacher might have magic you didn't! I've said _all along_ that wizards would pay for the way they treat house-elves!"

"That is _not_ my name – _do not_ _ever_ call me–!"

"_You deserve it!_ You deserve it for what you did to that helpless elf! I should never have given up on the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Warfare; _nothing _is going to change until wizards like _you_ stop abusing your fellow magical creatures!"

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Did the beautiful, naked witch in bed with me really care about _every_ creature in existence? It was utterly bizarre. In exactly the tone that Hermione now spoke of house-elves, she had berated Potter for torturing me. She actually… actually practised what so many have preached. Compared to her, that sentimental fool _Dumbledore_ was a dark wizard! I cannot understand how_ anyone_ can possibly believe such nonsense so fiercely. Fellow magical creatures?-!_ What kind of a witch is she? _My mouth is hanging open and I have to fight the impulse to laugh hysterically.

"And exactly the same thing goes for muggles, goblins, centaurs and merfolk! Too many of them have suffered because of the arrogance of witches and wizards – as if magic gave them any right to abuse anyone! It's horrible! And it's horrible what you've done! Don't you see you're only making things worse? That man who tried to steal my wand in Diagon Alley – he was desperate! If all you offer is violence, that's all you'll ever get in return!"

I bite my lip, trying to engage with her seriously and not laugh in her face. "Hermione, it is simply the way of the world. You are talking nonsense. It is _you_ who are misguided not I. Life_ is_ violence, each creature destroying another in an effort to survive. To be hated and feared is to be powerful – magic is might. Right and wrong are fictions created by the weak. Is a snake evil because it kills a… a goat? Not at all, it is merely acting in accordance with its nature. It is the nature of all things to abuse those who are weaker than themselves; the sole principle at work in this world is power."

"What is it I have that you want?" Hermione asks me curiously, seemingly calmed by my speech, thankfully wiping away her tears. "Considering what we just did there must be something. I'm not particularly powerful, not particularly pretty, and you think my morals are stupid. I mean, there's absolutely _no reason_ why you should be attracted to me, is there?"

"You do yourself a disservice…" I begin slowly.

"Oh _come on_, you're Mr There-Is-Only-Power-And-Those-Too-Weak-To-Seek-It, aren't you? Why is a mudblood like me in bed with you instead of being tortured and ground under your heel?" Hermione's bright smile is fixed and oddly cruel. I have never seen her wear such an expression and do not quite know what to make of it.

"You have been valuable to Lord Voldemort. You have assisted me and are thus a worthy object of my favour."

"I don't believe you and, what's more, I don't think you even believe yourself. You want me to_ love you_. You told me so a couple of hours ago, remember? You want me because I was kind to you when you needed someone. You want me because I'm nothing, _nothing at all_, like _you_. Yes, people want power, but they also want love! We're not reptiles; we _need to feel there's someone who cares about us! _If you were as bad as everyone says you are, if all you cared about was power, you would never have killed your father. What would have been the point? Why go to all that effort to find him and break the statute of underage wizardry? If it were just about creating a Horcrux, you could have killed anyone! You did it because he abandoned you – because you wanted him to love you and he didn't."

I shake my head, pulling away from her, shutting my eyes, unwilling to accept her words, hating to hear her spell out my weaknesses so clearly. But she puts her hands on my cheeks, her mouth to my forehead: "It's not weakness… it was _wrong_ what he did. It was _wrong_ that you never got any help for your psychoses, and it was _wrong_ how the Slytherins treated you. It's _wrong_ that you've spent seventy years alone_." __In order to teach someone to love you have to __show __it to them… He's not a monster, truly, he isn't. He's just a very lost, damaged person… _"It's okay…" her warm hand is rubbing circles into my shaking back. "It's _okay_ to need love and want help… It's_ okay_ to be Tom Riddle..."

"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT!" I scream at her, my pulse thudding in my ears. "I AM THE MOST POWERFUL WIZARD IN THE WORLD! I DO NOT… NOT NEED HELP!" _I'm not mad! _Words and memories are whirling around my head and I can't seem to stop shrieking. They make me sick, make me dizzy. _I am Lord Voldemort! I am… Lord… Voldemort… _Lips find mine, warm and lovely. Breasts, soft and beautiful, settle against me. Hermione's breath; the rhythm of her gentle breathing anchoring me to the here and now… _Oh… oh, I am mad. Mad for her. _So _weak_… There are tears in my eyes now, she has infected me with them, I cannot see…

"Don't be afraid," Hermione's voice is certain. "I'm not going to leave you. You're safe."

**L.V.H.G**

We lie together for ages. It could be hours. Voldemort is silent, maybe too proud to admit I'm right or too terrified of his own feelings for words. He cried soundlessly into me for what felt like forever. His body says what he can't admit. Clinging to me, his smooth, flat face is buried in my chest like a child. Our skin is sticky with sweat and tears – who knows which one of us they belong to? I found I couldn't tell him about what the cup told me. I was going to, really I was, but somehow when it came to it… I just couldn't. I need time to think about it, to do some research, and consider all the implications before deciding what to do.

I run my hand across the bald head between my breasts; fascinated by his moon-pale skin. My broken, terrified warlock. It's so hard for Tom Riddle to admit he's still human, that he needs the same things as everyone else. I feel fiercely protective of him, silly I know, but I do. Even though it's what I set out to do, to reform him, to make him see how wrong he is about everything – I feel responsible for breaking down the mask of Lord Voldemort which he's clung to for so long.

Nagini came back. It's sweet how they are together. Her coils are heavy across my legs. We're his two girls, Nagini and me. She's like Crookshanks: knows far more than she lets on. I surprise myself that I'm no longer scared about having a giant snake at the end of the bed. Voldemort stirs and one crimson eye blinks up at me warily. "Hey…" I say fondly. _My snaky warlock…_

"You keep calling me that…" his cold voice is hoarse. "I would not have thought a muggle-born would use such an old-fashioned term." _Did I say that out loud or was he reading my mind?_

"It's silly really… just something from a children's story."

"Oh?"

"A character in one of the stories from_ The Tales of Beedle the Bard. _Professor Dumbledore left me a copy in his will, I've no idea why he thought I should read them; they're just fairy tales. But now I think I know them all by heart, I've read them so many times..."

Voldemort nods, "It sounds like something he would do – he was always going on about the magic of music and stories when I was at Hogwarts. What happened to the warlock?"

"He died," Voldemort rolls his eyes and scowls at me. "He… he resolved never to fall in love, so he used the Dark Arts to cut out his heart and place it in an enchanted crystal casket in the deepest dungeon of his castle, but then–"

"And Dumbledore _gave_ you this book?" Voldemort interrupts sharply. "Actually left it to you as a bequest? Can you show it to me?"

_What harm can it do? _"Sure…" I summon the ancient little blue book from my bag while Voldemort lights the candles with his wand. The Ministry had the book for thirty-one days and couldn't find any hidden messages from Professor Dumbledore, I doubt Voldemort will find anything either. Merlin, I certainly tried! But there's no secret in the stories - it was just an old professor's fancy to give me a volume he loved. He knew how I enjoyed reading. The book is practically falling apart. I've had to glue the binding back on twice. There's something funny about being curled up in bed with Lord Voldemort and reading a book of fairy tales. I smile at him and leaf carefully through the yellowed pages, looking for 'The Warlock's Hairy Heart', with Voldemort peering with narrowed eyes at the runes over my shoulder.

"Stop," Voldemort says softly. I wish I knew Legilimency and were able to peek inside his mind as easily as he does mine. I'm worried about him. I want to talk to him about what I said before, but another part wants to leave it be and let him think for a while before bringing it up again. "Go back a few pages…"

He stops me on 'The Tale of the Three Brothers'. A long, white finger strokes slowly over the title. "What is this story about?"

"I suppose it's about how humans are frightened of death." I receive an angry, scarlet glare in return. "There's no need to give me that look! I didn't write it! As a matter of fact, I think it's a rather stupid story, as if surviving were as simple as hiding under an invisibility cloak."

"Read it to me," Voldemort orders inexplicably. He lies back, arranging his skeletal limbs comfortably. His candlelit skin is bright and pearly against the black sheets and pillows.

"You're kidding," I raise my eyebrows, unable to credit what I'm hearing. "You actually _want_ me to read to you from a kids' book?"

"Oblige me," he asks inexplicably, closing his eyes.

I suppose no one has ever read him a story before. It's almost... cute. I really _am_ getting somewhere with him! Hope bubbles over in my chest and I lean in and give him a quick kiss. "All right… ahem… _There were once three brothers who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…"_

**L.V.H.G**

_Next Chapter: Voldemort and Hermione pay a unexpected call on Xenophilius Lovegood… _


End file.
